This is Called Divination

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


Originally published in “The Squaw Valley Review 2010″.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s