the white horse has disappeared
over the edge of earth
like the sun running from the teeth of darkness.
Fleeing past men who clean weapons
in sudden light, women
breaking eggs in faith
that new ones will grow
radiant in feather cribs
the coyotes watch over.
All the innocent predators!
Even the moon can’t stop to rest
in the tree’s broken arm,
and at sunset the cows of the field turn away
from the world
wearing a death mask.
White horse.
White horse
I listen for you to return
like morning
from the open mouth of the underworld,
kicking in its teeth.
I listen for the sound of you
tamping fast earth, a testimony
of good luck nailed to hooves.
Even the moon can’t stop to rest,
and the broken branch is innocent
of its own death
as it goes on breathing
what’s in the air these days,
radiating soft new leaves,
telling a story about the other side of creation.