The stables are on the left, nineteen
horses, one black one. painted
splotches of white, nimbus clouds in the night
dark
There ways. Their sweat and mane, scent.
He draws cyclones in the sand with his fingers,
draws, their attention, and paints the corral
with music from his eyelids.
There is a red line to the east. grows
into a circle. fits
into the spaces between their ears
makes
them fire stallions.
the horizon is an ember, is a city, and then is a volcano. here
comes the feeling
of losing control. again. here comes the place. meant,
we all imagine ourselves riding bare back through
our dreams.
moon beams.
coyote screams.
the reins hang loosely over the saddles.
I just want to ride!. gallop through the night
for the pure sensation of fast / to nowhere.
imagines it. brings chills to his skin and body.
the black horse with the star on its nose stares into my thoughts.
no words.
can describe a moonrise in the desert.
somehow we reconcile our fear of each. others have been scared to death,
broken all four legs,
but here we are.. alive,
dancing in each other's faces
; the desert is alive, the rocks are alive, they make standing with you
bearable
I keep looking at my hands.. and so I am not hopelessly lost inside your beautiful
copper face
The other eight-teen horses watch us from the corners of their eyes..
jealous. no.
certain of our diminished sanity.
they admire us.
Andrew Tipton
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
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