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there is a street sign declaring
my driveway as blind,
and so is my girlfriend,
maggie andersen.
she has never seen a color or a basketball or a picture of her
mother.
but she does see horses.
her dreams reveal what her fingers know,
the tension of hip muscle, the fierce turn of eye,
the thudding whisper of a gallop,
a thick black mane meandering as a breeze.
and so mother and father have filled our backyard
with a congregation of horses,
still wild enough to scare my boldest confidence,
pure enough for admiration and timid affection.
they stand in the rain, huddled, often grunting at the sky,
maybe they know the name of god,
maybe they dream thunder and
lightning, much the same way
maggie dreams of proud backs unsaddled
and so tomorrow, we're going to visit with Amos,
looking for a home after six adolescent years in Wyoming.
maggie won't sleep tonight. won't even dream.
tonight, maggie will stare at the ceiling,
her fingers caressing strong shoulders and wild eyes.
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