No more moon till morning

When you came across them, you hollered
'fungis!'
Wrapped up like pale babushkas
we came out of the trees
to find you in your red hat
right and compassed in front of a field of them.
Their smooth fore skinned heads
bowing to an open mouthed moon.

Rammer skipped on ahead
whispering 'love time ladies,
such thin firm necks
offering up themselves'
in the face of frost.

The trick of picking them,
thumb and forefinger arced in under the gills
like lifting a girl up by her armpits
salt and saliva stinging her face,
and into your stomach.