Horses Tripping Up the Western Horizon (or Expansion)
Nine o’clock in the
summertime, take me
away
for now.
The cotton’s at your feet,
and your pupils are surfing the waves
of change.
Grasping for my
hair, one by one you pull
it out piece by bit
and I’m still this
far
from you.
Strength lies beyond the second strand.
I want the sun
to expand and expand and expand and
I want your tongue
to trace it;
like your pupils.
Pummel
It’s about time I sat down and learned to breathe in
deep, in line with the plaid on your sleeve.
But who has time to sit and take breaths
when the blue of your eyes is
the blue of the sky, and
who has time to wonder why
when I sip my wine I drowse, sigh
and drift?
Upside down. 