This is psychological. In a dream
that is not a dream I rise from
my blankets and there are wolves
blackened faces, wire-like fur,
their light-soaking eyes follow me
to the field where we keep horses.
A two year old quarterhorse I raised
myself, anticipates our midnight rides,
his long slender legs, thick muscled
neck, beautiful velvet nostrils
blowing ice-cold mist. And here
we are, species who could not be
more different. Here beneath
the blackened sky, the moon
a jealous spectator we gallop
and fly like a single organism
clinging to eachother.
2 comments:
This is very mysterious, like we're at the beginning of a story of some sort. I didn't want the poem to end!
Thank you Matt! Your comments are very uplifting!!
Post a Comment