He has a horse in the cellar. Nobody knows if he eats grapes. If he holds still you
maybe could ride him. He’s a child but he gallops and gallops to the place where only
horses are. His sister was long and thin and dancing in circles.
It’s not the right time for the spicy breath of the barker, foreign enough to break
through the street’s wet sibilant murmur, and all that leaping the water’s grasp
encourages merely breaks through the forgotten illustration, a sound like a planet clearing
its throat. When my ideas are gone, I’ll pay the price for more.
“Who’s blooming in my parts?” he wondered.
Like unto a dewdrop leaning towards the tug of its unopened flower.
There are big people to think about here and if that sky simply didn’t know it had a
better thing to do, then it would be everything outside. The subject that would know what
the subject was.
Deliver yourself to the wrong address and you could take home a troubled son.
But I’m not here for the corrections. Instead of domain, I want landscape. No more chain
Now the circus threatens to run away. Now the wrong man is the right one.
Let’s wait till later, when the candidate has spoken to the attached body. Let’s
irrigate the drying children and suffer without complaint.
Even the adopted clouds seem to be waiting for an admission.
Rich Ives is the author of Tunneling to the Moon: A Psychological Gardener’s Book of Days currently being published in serial @ Silenced Press everyday in 2014 and forthcoming in paperback. Begin from the beginning, catch up, read daily. Just refer to the Burrow Guide.