Horses in Funny Coats

Up the grain elevator
one hundred and eighty degrees
(but no proof)
an aspen chopped in two
makes a fence holding
asses in funny-coat blankets.

When the rail rusts, what’s left behind?
Down the track electric: a bottle
cast off to house earthworms;
an impatientist painting
bequeathed in night to the sound
of apple pie vapors wrapped in waxen mem’ry.

If the Guinness doesn’t fizz, what then?
A mistake made is extra cold.
A balloon of ink I pop loudly;
a three-fingered glove I force on.
Of this, only the lamb has knowledge.

Hate mail is unadressed—
A sky not blue not cloudy.
He stalks deer with a billy club,
smokes a clove with one lung.

When the postman comes,
the mailbox moves away.

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