And something sparked a single thought of her.
I'm not sure what, the wind, or how the trees
obscured the moon, the way the pollen blurred
the edge like fog. But I could feel her tease
my earlobe with her tongue. That night was crisp
and we were drunk, and young. She hadn't crossed
my mind in years, but suddenly her lips
were almost real, and just as quickly lost.
And somewhere in the shapeless place between
the second time I hit the snooze and when
I shook myself awake, I had a dream
of horses, running, rearing on the hem
of night, that space between the dew and dawn.
They flashed into the silence and were gone.