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.