A horse is a muscular hyphen—connecting humans to nighttides of the open        animal world beyond us. Last night I dreamt        that you married someone who wasn’t me.A winged horse is a regatta of stars—human’s first spacecraft, the moon, too,        is a changing hoof. How far upwards        each verve of the earth, a lunarship searchingfor unknown fruit. The tail, a brush of a comet’sglitterfreeze. I’ve sailed on these half-wings.        The dream rivets to silent, deep space.        The event horizon: an open gate.The cold ocean is not a horse—Mere and mer: false cognates.        Lunar mare: dark waves        of basalt, ancient stargazers misunderstoodto be water, maria. Pronounce this, Medusa.Sidus signs of your tongue on the lateral        of my dark thighs. An odious oasis, a desert        mer. Snakeskin glints in impastos of sage.layers of landscape. I’ll take handfulshome with your old jackknife. I’ll siren into        chalk-smoke motes, shadowed patterns        on celestial bodies. The mane falls wildon my black coat. White heat from the planetscantered light from behind the plateau.        How far of a dive into la mer until each creature        becomes eyeless?        Come, now out of the sing of river—drink a godsong like horses out of greenbuds about to speak into spring.