(This poem is dedicated to Don Quixote’s horse,
not to the Knight or the Author)
Open your mouth. Howl Idaho
till mountains drop boulders like tear balls.
It’s a crying plain crying with a dry throat
dry throat and coated nostrils
where the dear ones played down the long
river of no revision. Spit nickels.
No, spit teeth, tough and returned
as relic. Here a hack saw, there a sock
eye about to die out for good
in the low-down dry river (me, my) torn
from a liquid gone aerate. Walk anywhere.
No. Try pulling a tarp over your Ida
ho-ho eye and forget. That’s what I try
to do in the tub tonight — its rim of my
own wash-out, sad river. Rocinante,
lead me to water. No, lead me to drink.