Three wild horses punish the dust.
A butterfly waits for glass to become a rumour.
Once again, I am incapable
of tucking my heart in.
It will kick up, reckless and flying,
beating its wings at cold luck,
The sun may force itself upon the horizon
but dusk will always powder
at this time of year,
with this karma.
And my sun drops everything
for your headland.
My butterfly hammers beauty
and doesn’t see the truth.
My wild, beautiful horses
gallop towards your headlights,
towards your captivating headlights,
and then turn from grace,
head for the dump.
Graceless, Even with Wings
1 August 2012