Hay and a clean stall
And ivy on a garden wall
And a sign saying sold
And no coat for the bad cold.
I believe in you.
Do you believe in me?
What do you want to do?
Are we leaving the city?
On the black road,
Through the gold fields
While the fields are plowed
Towards what we are allowed.
The bridle bends in idle hands
And slows your canter to a trot.
We mean to stop in increments,
But can’t commit. We post and sit in impotence.
The harder the hit, the deeper the dent.
We seek out fame, we seek a name
In our credentials, paved in glass,
Trying to master incidentals.
Bleach a collar, leech a dollar
From our cents.
The longer you live, the higher the rent
Beneath a pale sky,
Beside the old barn,
Below the white cloud
Is all we are allowed.
Here, the light will seep,
And the scythe will reap,
And spirit will rend
In counting toward the end.
In december of that year,
The word came down that she was here.
The days were shorter,
I was sure if she came round,
I’d hold my ground.
I can do what they alluded to,
A change that came to pass.
Spring did range, weeping grass
And sleepless broke
Itself upon my winter glass.
And I could barely breathe for seeing
All the splintered light that leaked.
A fish is fleeting, launched in flight
But starched in light,
Bright and bleeding, bleach the night
With dawn deleting in that high sun
After our good run,
When the spirit bends
Beneath knowing it must end.
And I did all I want here,
To draw my gaunt spirit to bow
Beneath what I am allowed,
Beneath what I am allowed.
