by Robbie Coburn
Fire through a column of trees, blackened trees
in a dream of horses stumbling from a cliff face.
I pulled some of the bodies back up,
the spooked herd stampeding below
without direction.
a wounded stallion, crying.
still
the ravine is no longer here
and the horses are not breathing.
there is sudden rain and an opening
in my body you could put a fist through.
as everything can be crushed by waking
a dying horse told me
that making a saddle was like painting
human skin.
Copyright ©:
Upswell Publishing
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Last updated January 27, 2024