Wild Horse Run

So long, so many ways we said “farewell”

to orchards left in trusting, given seed

in parks between a crimson carousel

and one more queue for something you don’t need.

Why circumscribe the pencil point for’er?

Why mourn an ocean’s passing with the tide?

The perfect model of systemic er’r

consuming expectation, I confide

in her, the kindest of my waking dreams

who gently scoops my cotton insides out,

renews the matted filling, heals the seams

upon my eyes, and draws me close about.

I picked a rocking horse to take the crown.

I bet my hand, then all the cards fell down.