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.