The man at the bar says
the moon isn’t full enough
for her milk to drop.
I plug a quarter in the
jukebox and dance
anyway,
the bass beat of slurry
planes bellying low
overhead.
Someone spills a beer,
that hints of cinder
at the tail end.
It is in our hair—
the ash—fine
coating windows
and cars,
the hills—ghost-lit
with loss.
The waitress says,
it looks like sunset
at noon
and calls her children
to see if the road
home has closed.
I drive home
the way of grasslands,
past nineteen flags
planted into the earth.
Horses flank the side
of the road,
galloping.
For those who cannot
haul out
it has come to this—
stamping a name
and address
along the body
of the horse
before setting it free.