a night kitchen

This happy horse of my life that
I ride around in circles
circle like the face of a clock
clock-numbered all the way around this

This circle is the voice in the center
laying out our tasks for us
in time.
Never mind
the saddle and jodhpurs and boots and reins
the walks and trots and canters
and sun and dust and sweat.

This dappled gray horse of my life
whose shoulders unfurl to a rhythm
as I guide her into line behind the
buckskin horse and the bay horse as we
all form a circle at the direction
of the voice in the center
at a walk and a trot and a canter

circling the dust, shadows changing
as we changed hands and turned
serpentines through the center of the circle
the voice silent for once as I led the way.

The wave washed me ashore, my legs heavy with sleep.

The wave — the wave, not water but sleep.

I don’t move, so as not to throw off the last bits of it, until I remember the pencil within reach.

And fall back down.

Calendars run too slow to wear on your wrist

You’d have to hold too still

Don’t move your arm or the sun won’t fall just right, and it has to —

The world will be disjointed if you move, the page not wide enough to hold what it must —

The page flips every thirty midnights, and fans your wrist as you walk by.