Autumn’s Horses

I put my hand out, like a fire

yours is gentle, with that
tremulous shake

of fallen leaves
turning slowly
to the bronze of earth

beyond the dunes
of your shoulder
saw in the unevening sky

the roundness of your disapproval

afternoons as lithe as cats
I imagine    
you always have that face

a prosopon, de rigueur
downturned at a scrap of yellow

there are foals in autumn’s colours

the leavened wind
has an insistent touch
as soft and irrevocable as Midas

steam plumes their nostrils and furs their backs 
in their gait, unconstrained machineries

take sudden flight

(as you turn, come back inside)

the evening spills her horses