on the page
awaiting the day
someone takes the reins
and guides them. Gets on

the saddle and rides
them. A silhouette, a dark
pirouette that stares at the stars
and wonders among the rain

and thunder. How could anyone
sleep when the moon is playing
make-believe? Filling up the head
with cheese. And no dangling

carrot. Why do they parrot
all the greats like Keats and
Blake? What’s wrong with sqeezing
lemon on freshly washed linen?