It flattens us, scissors us open, whisks us up hill,
then landslides past, over takes us on the right,
all we have neglected or need to neglect.
Why are they called nightmares, these horses
that gallop across the cave walls of sleep?

Like hummingbirds we weave tiny cups of
shimmering thread to give our lives balance.
We stand on the banks of sad little streams
swatting flies. The sky full of commas,
exclamation points. As if our brains aren't

constantly ticking. Everyone's beat a little
off beat. We give the brightest stars names
and leave the faintest to find their own way
home in the dark. We plant brush strokes,
plant ideas for revolt. Headlights on for safety.

Deer leave their stiletto marks on the runway.
Their dreams are waterfalls. Once we believed
our lives were huddled inside us, eggs that would
hatch into bazaars of light. Instead another crop
of stones surfaces. We stop and talk to Mother

Theresa who keeps track of what tracks
through our hood. Some days you have to run
for your life, she says, run and run and run.
Otherwise it pulls away, pulls your sense
of self away like soft tissue from bone.