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Spooked Horses
- by
Janet I. Buck
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- I had a dream
that washed
- away these
forming ones.
- I couldn't
cross the plates of wheat,
- wind the
grisly mountain roads
- to meet you in
the Middle West.
- All because
I'd come too close
- to needing
you, and leaving would
- unsand a
desert, pitch it in my open eyes.
- Sitting sober
over meals,
- watching the
water clear
- in fountains
of perpetuity would spook
- black horses
of my past, strip the blinders,
- pull the
wheels from carriages.
-
- We would drink
fresh lemonade,
- sugar it with
being there
- in ways thick
conches of my ears
- have met
unsheathed dismissal rites.
- I was born in
secret caves
- of wars with
grief that called
- for only shiny
shields and bantering,
- washed down
with liquor's fire and ice.
- No matter how
it circled souls,
- mended fences
of an hour,
- became canoes
without an oar,
- we worshipped
it incessantly.
-
- I had a dream
that washed
- away these
forming ones
- like acetone
removes fresh paint.
- Crimson
sunsets ruddier
- on patios the
rain of exit hasn't stormed.
- I would not
own the strength to go.
- My veins would
just explode in joy,
- open like a
tulip's cup
- that breathes
the message of the spring,
- a saxophone
that never hit a note before,
- but leaves its
case and cannot
- fathom this
entrapping,
- velvet lined
with dollar bills,
- black tie this
and pouring that,
- warping every
rising moon.
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