Golden Stallion

It is shady with rain. The color wheel pauses on buff. Across the Atlantic, near County Clare, a cow clears her throat. Here, fall color expresses itself in tones no longer required. The global bleaching event continues, as the subsoil continues breaking and reforming its unknown music, like a mandolin whose strings are damped to get a barking effect. Banana leaves grow to resemble machetes. “Generous” is the ground’s password, but not forever. I buy myself a hunk of ice surrounded by super-friable insulation, size it to a cigar band. Though the Red Hook teamsters have been replaced by sea containers, their pictures can rely on family to stay upright. Once, when I saw someone by accident, I thought miracles ordained each other. I am the brood mare in love with the golden stallion who never stirs from his podium.