But for lumps of crumbling dung, the old horse,
has disappeared. Ropes of dried dog shit lay like
braids piled atop a faker’s head, while Our Lord’s
Candle, tall, thin plants with faux thorns and white
flowers sway.

Wearing a cloche hat with a feather sticking up,
a demon is standing at my door trying to get in.
“Go away!” I yell. “I don’t need you anymore!”

As I begin a poem, a bird flying below me rises to
where my thoughts once were; and a glossy sprig
of Poison Oak leans over my shoulder to read:

In January Poseidon's bull gores fat clouds,
causing winds to moan in a myth pregnant
with glistening horses emerging from sea's
sodden
bed to gallop across the sky as gray
cumulonimbus beings.