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

remembered.

 
Originally published in “The Squaw Valley Review 2010″.
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