Burning Horses

What was roughly, deeply
hewn and violent

made seamless.

Was it autumn? scent of
burning horses, leather,
shy leaf  fireworks, yellow
textured skies, cold

anemic like pond fish.

Pink, velour twilight?
thick and bleeding shades
of fresh cut salmon,

split open watermelon.

The narrow dirt road?
aluminum windmill,
six-fingered prophet
held together with

barbed wire and
dissolving duct tape.

Beneath its long, steel legs?
deep in miniature apples,
sage green, worm bruised
and bird tongued to

sweet rot.

Or with the field crows?
stiff robotic waddling,
bead-black coma stares

stabbing mud-stained
leftover snow.

Someone found the fear,
however, wherever

they were consumed
by fire-

somewhere, somehow.