by Mark Waldron

If you dig a hole and get in it,

                                                     what then?

              If you, say, flick a tree and holler,

                                                     then what?

                                         If you reverse into an attitude

of dotty surrender, all flags flying, the sky as blue

              as an unblown whistle, the children dancing,
                          well what’s next for pity’s sake?

If you ride a horse sideways, the crisp mist coming down all over,
              the broom, broom.

                                                     The cha, cha.

Do you like horses?
                                                     What they say?

If you come screaming over the hillocks, the dust and the dust.
              A plume in your bonnet.

              A cha, cha.

                                                     The sheer amount of a horse.

You know what side your bread’s buttered

                                         – both sides.