A Poem

The world is leaking, and all the olive-shouldered
bison muster are grunts into the wheatgrass.

Haunches flinch in crystal sweat. Wild horses
raise their heads as if—could they?—remember

the crack. What’s behind comes through, there—blue trembles,
then recedes to make way for flags, such flags!

Muddy orange, fuschia, seafoam green,
and peach in thick streaks—each spreads, touches

folds into another, and another.
Heralds all. Glorious, yet not the glory.

Crimson bleeds, pushes, pinches. All darkens
—but the buttes! Oblivious, they are lit

like lampshades, as if it’s midday, no eyes
nor ears nor heart to find the change. They shield

the dull beasts in their strange glow. The whinnying
ones walk into the rush of colors, and night’s breath

upon them, in them; galaxies drain in rich
lights. Light upon light. Something stirs. Beasts, look!

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