Deserts and Horses (a poem)
The hovering orbs are fathers
The moon is a woman of course
These bodies no longer govern destinies:
they have been reduced to people
My hands are dried branches
going up and down the
shadowed mountains
I am amorphous,
Without meaning
Underneath a cloak of stars
You are a lone fugitive walking beneath,
a ronin, an artist
You are gazing at the nuances of the earth
You navigate the desert floor
as cold as a plate
as profound and majestic
as a mirror in a dry lake:
beguiling you to question yourself,
to examine the cracks and abrasions
the pale beauty underneath
to discover who you really are
and what you are capable of.
My hands are open:
freedom -destiny in the midst of fear,
there are horses in the distance,
dust
dust
their hooves thunder.
