where the wild horses run

as the sky re-
writes its own
geography, dancing
the horizon in
and out of focus,
we
follow the road
to its end, lead
it shyly on
into wet glowing
thunder
underneath
the footfall
of uncorralled
dreams.

though the darkness
that falls
is implacable,
its night twisted
up in borrowed
sheets and a bed
as big as a desert,

there is
dew
on the floor
with the softly
waking dawn,
and angel
trumpets that
whistle forlornly
a prime
for coming
home.