Night Riding

What if sleep is a journey
and we’re out in bumper cars,
Cadillacs, golden rockets
made out of lipstick tubes?

No wonder we wake with straw
in our eyes. We ride our horses
right into the hay. They go
where they want to, hot sides

gripped tight by our scrawny thighs.
We’re kids again or very old,
our fat washed into the bedclothes,
leaving us eager and laughing.

Night horses leap bravely through
tattered moonlight, pale water,
dark gates. Steam bursts from our
twisting bodies. Waking, I find

a crease in my face from pressing
my cheek against chestnut horsehair.
The crick in your neck
came on in your ricochet ride.

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