carriage rides

i am afraid of how i will reach you
when the roads turn to bone 
& the trees are on fire. i buy a horse
from a man in the sky. the horse
is glorious. we ride her all the way
to a soft peach skin place. we waste 
our days talking about the future
when there is no future to talk about.
instead, we should be focused on
how to squeeze the dark. get the last
few drops of syrup. pour it across
our skin. you build us a carriage from
an old car & a hole in the wall. 
i play with the bridle & you get too serious
& tell me you never want me to carry you.
that, if i have to, you want me 
to burry all the papers & pretend
we are new to the earth. we ride in 
the carriage to the last restaurant 
on earth. the windows are full of 
menus, always changing in the depleating
meat situation. we are not there for burgers.
that would be insulting to the horse.
instead, we are there for fried potatoes
& coleslaw. we need a little mouthful
of the dazzling chrome diner. 
the world closes in. the carriage, such 
a beautiful work of endurance, swallowed
by the creeping sun. everyone has 
more fingers than they know what
to do with. the horse stays. thank god 
for the horse. we use her to get out
of there before they make us bus boys.
no again. i can't do that again. 
i want to believe there is a gas station
or a defunct church we could use
to hold each other. in the dark you ask,
"do you remember the big car?" 
the truth is that i do not. i remember
things used to be easier but i am not sure
if that is because the world is so much thicker
or if it is that early love soothes 
the fires even if they are in your windows.
i put on the bridle even though 
you asked me not to. i trot around the room.
i take us to the house, now just a cluster
of roots. it is at least somewhere to sleep.