dreams
The horses in my dreams are always black, always huge, always writhing like flags. When awake, the horses are not with me but battle in dust somewhere, thick legs flailing, teeth snaring flesh, nature feeling stuck. I don’t know why they fight, but what from what I can imagine myself observing, what we are seeing played out is some sort of system, I can say no more than that. I am dreaming again, children are playing with a discarded bag in the street while their mothers are inside getting younger. The horses move across the sky, dark masts, good black hair – No eyes, not yet. Open mouths like hangars. Here come the eyes, round as bombs, large as homes. Awake, walking home, beggars in the walls, policemen with extra limbs, a mound of broken dogs. This world has ended for the day, too much has been said, nobody is feasible. To bed. Beneath the surface of sleep, I ride the horses to a wood of pines; tall, fragrant, slim as veins. We enter the wood and gallop, looking for the other edge. Amongst the trunks, in the quiet, we move like a river through a prayer.
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