begins with cloud formations, the usual moodswings, the way a profile hangs against it
,what isn't there,
a dream about horses. A horse-filled dream.
Sweet hay braided into their manes, grazing
The horses of this country remain outlawed
withdrawn, moldy, subdued and saucy dude.
Sometimes ranch dressing is oppressingly sad
The color will change even before this mountain is
And sometimes the rain collects even after it dries
like a shadow of itself, haunted by small dried horses
haunted by seashells shaped like dead light arriving for years, haunted by
fibers set free from the sweaters of passing tourists, haunted by
planets that dreamed themselves haloed, by angels that dreamed themselves out.