On a horse called Autumn
among certain decaying things
she rides inside me, and
no matter where I move
this woman’s song
goes on ahead of me.
She sings of stables decaying
near where once
riders came,
and where now alone
her heart journeys, among
lies I made real.
Now riding in truth
what alterations can I make
knowing nothing will change?
Things stay the same:
Such journeys as hers
are the ones I care for.