flying horses

it was some time
after the third
or fourth beer --
the one I knew
I shouldn't finish --
that the gentle spinning
turned to turbulence
and the streetlights
became fireflies
I could never catch.
outside my window
the crickets sang
knowing all along
that the flying horse
would never leave
and that the lights
dimmed promptly
at midnight
the exact time
that I had planned
to leave my body
and ride
above the traffic
above the turbulence
into the paradise
of sleep.

Paul David Mena
21 August, 1996
Acton, MA

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