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,

losing grace.
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.