in the courtyard a warrior tries to sit astride a horse made of dough. spectators move about to get a better view.
i can love that warrior. i too am silent & dreadful.
a plane passes overhead, but i ignore it.
the warrior & i are never anywhere but in the corn rigs, or bundled in the wicker belly.
waiting for the first wisp to take us, oh, it feels like a great palm stroking the long muscles of the back.
everything now is so dirty it’s clean.
we cycle back around to the beginning because we have to, because that’s the way we do it.
there are days when i’d rather be burned than keep doing that, keep doing.