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.