There are nine horses in the meadow,
wildflowers and grass,
fate counts them one by one.

Empires of bees and frog dynasties disappear
as do cities of the dead. Destiny
rides them into wind and ashes.
Everything is ashes in this world and
the molten rock is filled with ceremony.

In the flat land (where flat people,
soak in skin),
three ride four horses.

Two fingers are pressed to my forehead
in fervent benediction.
Clouds pass by like bareback riddles.
Five horses named unforgiven. Their manes
flying, their hooves on fire.