The Cost of Expression is an Anti-colonial Urgency

Your horse steps down to sleep.
It is a stone horse,
a vivacious vivid whiskey drinking horse.
A war horse.
After, we put you out to pasture, still
dreaming the exploding sky
of sulfur and starlight.
Cascade of bodies in territories
in-between vision and remorse.

You are an ancient horse,
of course,
a Christmas horse, hoar frost
on trees, sputtering in the curiosity of focus.
A movement between ardor and enticement,
the entertainment of fluid reach, to drink
from pink sands – The Sea of Cinnamon.

It is a horse story, all horse opera –
the operatic storm, a house in flames.
Galloping, rushing, standing still –
therapeutic lowing, the glance of the statuesque Horse
in National Ardor – unforgiving,
Pull the statues of War down – (won't help).

Your horse, stretched, chiseled,
sculpted on a pedestal, a stand, a
horse on display, a horse, of course,
misused, in misguided missiles.

The Cost of Expression is an Anti-colonial Urgency

The cues of light and guidance,
diminished partner of movement and song.
Coarse, gentle gelding at the coast,
drifting eyes towards –
you, the stretch of the shore.

We named her Venezuela. Eternal,
stoic, our loss, the Bellicose Belligerence,
F-stop egregious indoctrinated Generals.
Emergence in the kaleidoscope
of healing, reconciliation.
To feed upon history, with
carrots and dates and sugar. Wild

a cantering, a descending note, the descant –
of descendants in northern fields.
Entwined, woven – beyond mines and
textile mills, towards the scored burning harp,
a symphonic tactility, the tactility of a hand-made
winter’s coat.

Stepping down to the water, to drink.
To pasture painted candy-cane coloratura.