I dream up an excess of horses.
              That night on the beach,
an ear carves open the ocean’s
              avian, elides this dull
stampede. Waterlogged, the mare
              sinks her trampled neck
into atonal static: pith, to make
              love/to ash. Someday,
you kneel, brook your hand through
              the deluge. The water
parses your face. How many
              departures must remain?
Anticipating, I pocket shards
              of shrapnel and glass,
string this strange fruit against
              the road’s bloat. Here,
the horizon dams
              with the bodies of men,
our bones so light
              and avian.
Are you sleeping? I
              wonder. It rains
in Budapest. The blue-
              veined loam
must lust, hold fast
              into night.