Rawhide

This is how you disappear

out between midnight,

called up under valleys

of torches and stars.

Foot, knee, shaggy belly, face

famous hindlegs,

as one of their own

you graze with them.

Cro-magnon herders

will stand in the wind,

sweeping tails shining,

and scaled to begin,

SHUTTING DOWN HERE

SHUTTING DOWN HERE –

to where necks

leave the air

unpossesed

and giant heads lock

constellations.

A last grain of dust

lands in the darkness

on tongues laid bare,

and turning to chalk.

Shutting down here.

Freezing in red,

bent over his ice skin,

The insomniac gnaws

in the On-Offs;

he is glazed

in the hooves

all round.

It is losing its shape.

Losing its shape,

as the heat

in your hands

carve the muscle

away.

And he grins

from a break

in a backflash.

Delivers it up

on a break

in a backflash.

Motionless brands

burn into a hipframe

As a saviour

loads sightlines

backlit by fires,

on the ridges

of the highest

breeder