Loose gestures trail bright crocuses along
the edge of my bed. I have not been sleeping
or dreaming in black and white like he does
and here I am. Some form of copy cat.
My father loses every card hand he plays
but it never stopped him. Let me tell you about horses,
did you know they sleep lying down? In fields
full of strangeness. And my father, he
lives in a town abandoned for the unresting dead
to haunt slowly. And I keep gambling on
these horses that won't run west
like some horizon lit on fire. I am watching
my father settle his garden for evening
His arms, the quiet trees, our spines. He yawns