Waking I should check for fire
the smoke I smothered with spray
may restart even though I commanded
my father to fill more buckets. Watching
the plaid of mullions on the ceiling
is small restraint to not wake them
at wee a.m. under the delusive grip
of prognsticating dreams.

I shake clear to deconstruct
the hoof-pound, from the north
which would have barreled me over
along with the intruder, my mind
edited and aided deep breath

how that palomino was remembered
as chestnut, how the filly would have been
a miracle like Sarah’s
texture of her mane at that age
was wrong, cluck at the mind’s misdrawing
a longer pony tail along her neck
matron-myself from night mares.

a continuity error as her feet didn’t wheel,
didn’t tear clods loose, the bump between
my shoulder blades came too late, afterthought
when the figure was already facing me, face down
both in the dreamland. It got her character
wrong; she wasn’t the kind to trample
once her point of get out
to newcomers had been made.

pillow and back dust cloud soft

successive weeks
pile on each other
the weight kicked off
crush the heels of
past week’s soles

can no racks be engineered
bear the weight, display potential
of so much walking that could
be done in chic style

if time could be
stepped out of as easily
as diamond encrusted pumps
that pinch the toe.