In the last dream, the horses were shod with bone. You prodded my chest with a
divining rod. The riverbed thwarted the bright water.
At the end of the beggar’s highway, we hung a celluloid sun. Knew the way four clad
feet left the ground; quatrains of little moons. They rose and fell, but quickly.
Rain gemmed the fading sky: the air caught its breath. Imagine a padlock made of
flesh, imagine it was yours. Imagine what is locked behind it, behind the star
of cobalt blood, clotted at the catch.
The nights fanned out like a deck of cards. You stood behind a pillar of wind and
were quiet. I was as small as a small brown bird.
There was the distant thrumming of hooves, there was your pulse. There was you
who found the lost spring, cool and secret. I fluttered in your chest, and was
remembered.Originally published in “The Squaw Valley Review 2010″.