The Great Grey
I galloped my mare
on the ceiling all night;
summer stirred in her sleep,
stretched and raised warm wide arms
of red roses. Eyes unopened she died
when the wind turned corpse-cold.
I took down the remains
with food and blankets to the child
in his cell. I fought when the keepers
ate it all while he cried, mouths full of
carrot, April and wool. My key cracked
in the lock. They beat me with laughter.
I watched two moons scrubbed out
by steelwool clouds, scratching paled
porcelain sky as they streamed by,
chained in a train of tarnished
silver cars rattling out their freight
of snow-melt on my face.
No jumping that train, no escape
on the rails, no escape on
my mare, no summer, no saving,
only this waving grey
where colors are graving.
posted for Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads
and for earthweal's
Images: Horsewoman On A Red Horse, © Marc Chagall Fair Use
November First © Andrew Wyeth Fair Use