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.


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