A normal horse couldn't carry this load of blue
around the dim setting moon. Wind and no rain
in the riverbeds.
What good’s a rudder in dust?
And anyways, there isn’t a number to call. To get a single angel
or hire enough earnest women
to carry me
beyond I don’t care how this ends.
As little birds
orbit the hawk, clouds clot
and it’s beautiful. How rain and through the rotted heart
of the fallen log
everything flows again.