The Poetry Kit MAGAZINE



From CITN 3 - June 2001

Spooked Horses
by Janet I. Buck
I had a dream that washed
away these forming ones.
I couldn't cross the plates of wheat,
wind the grisly mountain roads
to meet you in the Middle West.
All because I'd come too close
to needing you, and leaving would
unsand a desert, pitch it in my open eyes.
Sitting sober over meals,
watching the water clear
in fountains of perpetuity would spook
black horses of my past, strip the blinders,
pull the wheels from carriages.
We would drink fresh lemonade,
sugar it with being there
in ways thick conches of my ears
have met unsheathed dismissal rites.
I was born in secret caves
of wars with grief that called
for only shiny shields and bantering,
washed down with liquor's fire and ice.
No matter how it circled souls,
mended fences of an hour,
became canoes without an oar,
we worshipped it incessantly.
I had a dream that washed
away these forming ones
like acetone removes fresh paint.
Crimson sunsets ruddier
on patios the rain of exit hasn't stormed.
I would not own the strength to go.
My veins would just explode in joy,
open like a tulip's cup
that breathes the message of the spring,
a saxophone that never hit a note before,
but leaves its case and cannot
fathom this entrapping,
velvet lined with dollar bills,
black tie this and pouring that,
warping every rising moon.