HORSES

So, who was that ferocious god we answered to, who lay buried
in the coarse thicket of our pubic hair, in swigged beer and the serum
of our guilty sweat? He was our outpost of dog fur, our immaculate
boner, he was radiant. He ran through flaming sewer gutters,
exploded mail boxes, all juvenile pranks while our bodies burned
with tides we had no name for. We were wired to his spine,
we knew his dance which set us running, but we could not
speak to him. The power plant hummed at the edge
of the neatly combed lawn, which was green in a way
that whispered green even in the gathered dark.
And our shadows galloped like mad horses, afraid
their own muscles could tear them apart.