The wind with its electric snow goes
laughing

at cryptic visions that stand on alters
in the swamps

night calls asking if you remember
nothing, nothing

at all of what the golden horsemen could want
with the queen

whose always threatened with becoming
a pawn whose

cold hand is moving across the carpet
trying to hold a candle

against the dark with out being blinded
by the glare

continuing past the dawn to ask why
she kept counting

when she knew about the card he was hiding
up his sleeve

like a leaf
that stops its dancing to speak

a word of what
it had heard her think as she repeated

what was so
well termed about the earth and sun

in spiritual lust
or growing more then cold shadows

from the bridges
she burned across in a mad rush for his

midnight, a vesper
stranger then the ones always so close and quiet

as the storm
clouds gathering in silence

as a warning
before moving slowly on.