I return to the house a little more burned,
a little more
peopled by your faces turned toward that horserace
where we are from, where winter warps
the film we need
horses leave the ground at full gallop.
The break was clean, my always fate—
how they move like ice shadows lengthen,
they are time machines.
Watch as I do,
a film of my own life unspool.
How frantic are those snapping heads?
I am tied to a chair watching ghosts gather
I mean finish,
where it starts to matter who feeds
their colts gunpowder before the race.
I mean cocaine—
speed, if you’re up to it,
will teach you the value of time.
You tell me to count,
to calm myself, to leave
that broke down that went for broke
where I found it.
How could I forget
that colt who tests positive?
How could I not
as I heed my own voice speaking
the warbled language of film played backwards—
I have been here before—
come home shuddering world of last chance, beat
of horses’ stillness
before the gates fling themselves open—
I should go.
I should go
for the throat.
I should destroy the chair.