My back is pressing against a
Stone wall, low and crusted like
Bread. Occasionally I rise up,
My hair moves about, I smell horses
Off in the distance. They will ride
Through me long before I will
Ever mount them.  But now I look
Again. The tall grass is moving.
There were no horses, only this
Pale wavering, the wind. There is
No saddle for the wind; if anything,
I am that saddle, gritting my
Leathery teeth. I wait here for
The shifting weight of a rider:
As light as the weather, cotton,
As heavy as a thought seems, wool.
There I am now, moving across
The lumpy pasture, the wall
Receding,
The light, noticeably clearer.

Steam from a bowl of oatmeal rises,
Dimming the party hat mountain.
The plunger falls in the dark waters,
Settling on the murky grounds.
Something orange, something wrinkled,
Something sprinkled, something soft.

I want to come around to your side,
Kneel by your arm, offer myself.
This is my prayer, this is my sign
Here at this table.  Close by, the
Apex of trees continues to climb,
The distance varies, the sun
Crosses the room, searching.
The chunky bread is browning, there
Is a moist piece of sun on your lip,
Butter is melting in the bowl,
And I hold your hair out
Like a bolt of Egyptian cotton,
Like a gift I can barely manage.

Everything is always rising and falling.
The temperature- not as steady
As one thinks: A cloud shadow, a
Yellow wing, the wind, your breath, a fret.
Pauses.
Tiny separations that blink and blink
Again, even as you finish that sentence,
That spoonful of raisins and oatmeal.