steffen brown





there is a lake that’s nervous

of anything too composed

there is always the horse

and again, the lake or

i think of a person being stretched

across a meadow

the thunder-doves pining above—

a meadow next to the lake

again, a horse

or to foresee the future as

a white wall of memory


the doves pining and

shadows of water within the lake

the lake clicking

some windmills at hand—

to the left, the horse’s shadow

my hands reaching up to the doves

my lips

my dappled lips

lined with the notion

that it is o.k. to say the word God

and not to know—


the white sheets of snow lift

and tear across the meadow


a low hum of tired windmills

the horse that is wont

to self-destruct

its lip dripping

the stretching       the lake

the pre-historic horse

and the modern

my hands in the wind