One house sits
quietly on this,
the street of carousels.
Who will set
the horses running?
Stubborn as dahlias,
their poles grow dim
with sun. Doesn’t mean
they’ve never run.
When I walk by
I furtively caress
their flanks.
They lie. They lie.
They know
they are alive.
I’ve seen them gaze
on our house
in the middle
of the night.
I’ve heard
them neigh.
They say, they say:
anything they touch
remembers it was touched.