After making a meal of those horses,
After a supper of blood,
Rest.
Even a demon dreams.
In one, its arms and legs fall off and
it’s flat in the dirt inside the barn
a chain around the throat that
squeezes tighter and tighter until the end of time.
In another, the girl—don’t think that name, don’t think that name—
the girl arrives at night, footsteps outside the barn;
And then her voice, I’m here.
You want me to read to you or sing?
The second dream hurts worse than the first.
Because the second is dream and memory.
Awake again.
In the cold; in the night.
No more rest. No more sleep. Alone.
Don’t think that name. Don’t think that name. Don’t think that name.