we found
ourselves , frightened
less of red
eyes and mud
or merciless
current’s drag
than of muddled
sound and slow swirling light.
“Here is the road,” we
thought, “into
consciousness
here in the
dessert of the mind.”
We imagined horses
then, broad brown backs
and black
manes and our own
flight into
Egypt, those back
roads like veins.
Like Valkyrie we swept
down into corn,
our mad
song, our invitation
wild and loose
as hair
in the wind, our
long
descent, day
slowly diminishing
in a sweet
parabola
of summer storm
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