Wild Horses
The horses run on bloated bellies
Along the surf, their foals astride.
Such wobbling legs deserve the earth
A thousand miles south-southwest.
With hooves in shallows losing sun,
Dark laughter smacking through the waves,
Their spirits drive the spirits straight
Into the heart of our unreason.
A black sun rises over these wilds.
Its light reveals the ghosts of lust,
The curve’s refusal to unfurl,
The terminal phalanx of thought.
When horses horse, I know myself.
When grasses take the breeze, I know
The hand that holds the hand that holds
The light, the dark, the promises kept.