Horses mount wheels
and their bodies turn stiff,
gleaming with chrome.
Roads spread like vetch
that stays dry but still grows.
The bottom of the icebox heats up.
Lids pop. A shouted call crosses
the continent. A light switches
on, then off, then on again, again.
I live, not fearing
death, but wondering:
is my world a candle,
a pyramid, a new Word?
This is lovely.
Thanks, Andy.