In the dream I was a huntress
mating with Orion—
muscled and fleshed—
his tunic torn in passion

it was below zero
that Vermont night
and I giggled, finished,
laying naked in the snow
and feeling no cold
as he slumped, worn,
I cradled him
but he dissipated, belt first
(he never took it off, the bastard)

Betelgeuse was the last to go.
I clung to that cold shoulder
and he winked at me—
winked with all eight stars—
and faded into night