His dream of the riderless horse
followed his every lonesome night
like a predatory owl swooping under
echoes of restless angels turning over.
His own footsteps, it seemed,
had betrayed him—and neither wind
nor water would rescue his travels.
Abandoned, he peeled back elm bark
to carve out his crux
for the next one who follows.
“Do not fear the danger, but
only the silence that follows.”
This, he thought, was good advice
but could never follow for himself.
clouds plastered the moon like
expensive furs over shoulders
of wealthy little brown haired girls.
Their silvery slivers for eyes,
wider than Christmas morning.
He stood in darkness, squishing wet leaves
beneath and between his toes for hours,
questioning, never aloud,
where else his toes might be
if he never left home.