thoughts, unlike horses;

Give ‘em what they want and

they’ll take off their tops,

or put down their guns and

get off at corresponding subway stops.

Mothers, fathers, daughters, the sun-sand

­

surf, they would all like another drink,

and more things to hold onto, see;

things to fuel their heads or hang on their

bodies.  Thoughts, unlike horses, are upon me

proposing the straight lines short, like her blonde

hair,

­

or love—this thing that’s a little bit many many times

over a long distance.  Who would like another drink?

I have the coordinates of a heart like a jumbo jet—

poor downed thing doesn’t start.  I think

going on 3 years since it and the sky last met

­

in a show of flight, to peak and flatline,

as if saying, “check it out, my secret hiding place is

big & loose on the faultiest plane.”  A missing pick

in the big icebox of spaces

can’t find a trade in the trick

­

of its two-story wings in their pivot,

against the winds and clouds tall like afros.

But who is really free?

Is it you or I and more, or only half so?

Or only here, where thoughts, unlike horses, are me.