FIREHORSE
I am anxious and afraid.
I am anxious and afraid watching my clothes spin dry in the
laundromat. I am anxious
and afraid outside in the smoke-filled air and have
something to give you. I
have something to place in envelope bodies, shaking
and glittering.
Shaking
and
glittering and smoke and
smoke and smoke
then snow. Snow glimmers
to sprawl and litter. To hold
your hand before I fall
apart—
to fall apart, shape
then
blur. FIREHORSE you are radiant beautiful and a
shape
through
the bright.
FIREHORSE if you
translate the beaming and coiling, translate
an
earth pew into the snow, I can braid you
from a sentence, a
dialogue loosening
smoke wires.
If this place is here /
is home / is my body tried / is brimming from the Palouse, then
one
is a new place is a new home is a calendar.
One can look past the
gridlocked street, flutter a harbor, return a shopping cart to a corral
and mean nothing or mean
something to carry enough.