The dream that begins outside the house of my father’s dynasty
is full of empty space – a quiet barn emptied of all its hay.
And it burns in my restless, roving mind like a candle
flickering on a table. A toy zephyr breathes oxygenated fuel like a nurse
upon the flame’s flickering lips as its puny engine stirs the air.
Firmly saddled, with my finger on the pulse of the fawn I had stolen from a steel trap,
I bolted to the finish line and danced out upon the lawn.
This stallion’s owners had closed the doors a moment too late.
I purchased some freedom from the sharp night air, flaring my nostrils.
I have slept through quieter nights than this before.