I saw that a star had broken its rope in the stables of heaven— This homeless one will find her home in the foothills of a green century. Who sleeps beside still waters, wakes. The terrestrial hands of the heaven clock comb out the comet's tangled mane and twelve strands float free. In the absence of light and gravity, slowly as dust, or the continents' drift, sinuous, they twine a text, one letter to an eon: I am the dawn horse. Ride me.
From A Point Is That Which Has No Part by Liz Waldner, published by University of Iowa Press. Copyright © 2000 by Liz Waldner. Used with permission. All rights reserved.