Long Ago, Riding

A tall horse; and the two of you astride it;
You, love, pillion, clasped to his bare thighs,
Your cheek turned perfectly into the hollow
Between his shoulders.
The horse, a horse of clouds.
As if from a masthead, you saw in the distance
Its nebulous form, swaying low as horizons.

Then, all tuned together, the dream-violins neared
You. Surreal, approaching in their indolent dance
Came the dreams-before-sleep to foretell its arrival.
But barely discerned, it was there, and you lay
As if falling asleep on its back that was vast
In the languid departure. The horse of clouds moved
Placid, in time with your dream, through a realm
Of far bells, of Junes long ago gone, of deep snows:
Your demesne, the vast empire of being-together.
Where now?
The desert’s unpeopled, awaits no procession
Of dancers, violins: nor the horse that comes after.
And you, horse, where?
In what pasture of time,
Or under what snows, horse of sleep-after-love?