Monday, August 30, 2010

St. Fantimus

I’ll wait until you tell me

the end of your dream.

for now, the horses remain buried

up to their sleek stomachs

in the darkest tar.

I woke up standing

in the kitchen.

I imagined glass

shattered at my feet.

No blood, no slices

between toes.

I must have heard

your horses whinnying,

calling out for someone

to help them out

of place so black.

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