GOOD DEEDS UNDONE

Then I was a safe house

for every one of your bad dreams.

Not really, just a few. Just a drop

of poison, a poison pen, just

evermore dusky postpartum

between us two, each day

a portrait drawn of what I

couldn’t do. My muse is not

a horse, but river necks craned

from behind stall doors or milling

quiet in a pen is how we like them,

thrumming center of space

defined, speed defied, all almost

and maybe, all someday and soon.