there is a lake that’s nervous
of anything too composed
there is always the horse
and again, the lake or
i think of a person being stretched
across a meadow
the thunder-doves pining above—
a meadow next to the lake
again, a horse
or to foresee the future as
a white wall of memory
the doves pining and
shadows of water within the lake
the lake clicking
some windmills at hand—
to the left, the horse’s shadow
my hands reaching up to the doves
my lips
my dappled lips
lined with the notion
that it is o.k. to say the word God
and not to know—
the white sheets of snow lift
and tear across the meadow
a low hum of tired windmills
the horse that is wont
to self-destruct
its lip dripping
the stretching the lake
the pre-historic horse
and the modern
my hands in the wind
