the editor demands,
and asks if it serves
understanding to
undermine gravity
and fling the beast into
a star shot sky.
If this is a dream ploy,
it’s been done and done
and done, with every face
of the con artist’s moon
offering up its dull
and predictable cant.
We sympathize, me
and the lapis Lipizzan
stallion who leaps
right off my sight line
and into his own
constellation.
If that horse ever listened,
he doesn’t now. I never
could tame him, I insist,
from my perilous perch
in the sleep inverted air
of a Chagall village bed.
