My heart rises on the horizon like a horse and rider, humming the sort of tune I’d like to forget. It wants to run off again. In the end, nothing’s changed: the moon clogs up with the city’s wishes. My heart looks down, draws someone else’s initials into the dirt. You can always come home, I say. You know that. And that tinny, grey-blue sky, cool as an ax head, soaks up all the good I swallowed before this.
by Lee Sittler of Madrid
*Title found in Music for Pieces of Wood by Howie Good
