Lisa massages her breasts
in her sleep, dreams of mother’s
milk, a fragment by Thoreau,
opportunity swinging open on hinges.

The wild horses of the night
graze in the heavens,
each bite they take of sky sparks.

Lisa lives in a house of chaos
without a roof, without a ceiling,
with the finger prints of many men
and the green stain of their money.

A colt cuts from the herd,
gallops down moonbeams and enters
Lisa’s room while she sleeps.

Her hand rubs her crotch 
in the throws of a nightmare 
about the silver pole spearing her, 
pinning her to a skin tone tree trunk.

The colt nudges Lisa with its nose,
moist breath speckles her face,
she rolls, opens her eyes.

With her nakedness aglow in moonlight,
Lisa rises from under the covers.
The colt moves through the house,
moves to the living room.

The colt’s hooves strike through the carpet,
splinter the floorboards, while Lisa
holds its tail as a guide.

Through the growing hole, she spies 
the dreams she buried or cast away,
the dreams this house kept safe for her,
kept by the sofa where she once experienced love.

The colt gallops off to the sky, as Lisa pulls 
dreams out of this hole as if out of a drawer 
and clothes herself, begins to outshine the moon.

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