In need of a journey,

I traveled all the way from the rose

to the potato

and kept going.

The mud was unbearable,

the wind a knife.

Not one bite to eat, not even

a cup of tea-stained water,

but at last I was on my way,

alive and alone.

In flat country, I dozed off.

When I awoke, a city

was rising from the grain

with its own onion-yellow moon.

It was then I remembered

feeding apples to horses in autumn,

how the horses tossed their heads back

to tumble the fruit against

their tilted teeth as they ground

the apples down.

Sprays of pink foam

flew from their mouths

and landed on me like garlands.

The sweet joy of slobber

is one I had forgotten,

and the joy of being nuzzled

by huge animals begging for more,

all their impatience

in their lips.