Dana Koster
When we touch, I hear the rumble of horses.
I’d forgotten the pasture is full of horses.
In sleep, you entice me to swallow your breath.
I will not break you as one breaks horses.
Outside, the earth is flat and resolute.
Fog rolls through the valley on the backs of horses.
I wonder if I will outlive you, or you me
but I only ask you to speak of horses.
You say there are filaments of night in my hair.
I am telling you they are strands of horseness.
The moon is not a spy at our yellow window.
The sun is not a chariot pulled by horses.