Flamborough Downs
Across the moonscape field
Two solid horses collide
One crouches downward
I fold my program
Into my pocket and
Replace the small wood
Pencil behind my ear
The jockey thrown clear
Stands in his little knee
Boots breathe pouring
Out like bubbles from
A diver standing before
A cobalt blue Shipwreck
Number Seven lays on the
Turf sunbathing under
The autumn moon
Black eyes like
Reflecting pool balls
Stare at the confusion
From panicked groomers
To detritus blowing
Before wide floodlights
On this deep small night
Leg veins pounding
It rises whistling and
Innocently strolls away
I unfold my program
Take back my pencil
And lean into the turn.
Coming like a Ghost Town
Stars seemingly pale
Blush for me for the
Spider webs of hair
Curling downward
From your neck
Inside my ribcage
They blush for me
When pale and walls
Houses so pale and
Dishes in the sink
So pale and crosses
On the churches so
Pale and the eyes of
Jesse James so pale
His coffin makers
Smile and the stars
So seemingly pale
For someone so it
Maybe as well be
You or it may be
The moon and me
Pale snow gravel
Gamblers jockeys
Pale blew reflections
Of the pale faces
In sad blue seats
Sad brown horses
With lungs open like
Wings nostrils pale
Like medallions and
The whisky tasted
Good the water
Tasted like loss and
The money came not
Pale only not enough
Almost every love
Is pale or blushing
A flustered density
Pale every time
I’ve been somewhere
South they say you’re
So pale and I say
Pale girls can be
Pretty beautiful but
Beautiful boys can’t
Be pretty pale.
