Artup and the great blow of anger felt his fury at my neck. He was holy and had the hold of all angry fellowships at my breast. He was hanging on for dear life and all of his foil studs that pushed and berated were up there in that hanging forest of my head. I was scrimmage and pulppupatebutterflywormangrything and now I am tryingtrying to rebuild the negative images of filigree wings that I have in my head. Trying to think of beauty and how I am not a waste of imaginary dreams.
Ah, the betterloveadream moment. You had better love a dream. You had. You did. Did you? A dream. Had you loveadream moments in your head? Had you loveadreamdidyouloveadreamanddidyou?
The foil edges of dreams are easily ripped in two. The mare hides his head and breathes slowly into the grass. I climb onto his back and ride away. Two distances. One fur along. Hang onto manes and describe journies into wet forests. Saddle-back and under branches. Hot flanks of longing. Weightless edges of air. Two thousand seconds of dark, muscular aches.
Wonderful longing. It canters on. I try to catch up with mossy futures.
