In the desert of burning dreams, of armadillo and centipede,
I would call this night pitch dark back home
I would watch for any star to pass into dream song

or point of light called planet to whirl and twist like
a tiny pinwheel swallowing me to its vanishing point
Here under pewter sky with words out of breath

I chase poems down like wild mares into fenced corrals
I watch close calls with wisdom rear and kick
against the fences of good judgment.

I used to think the skies brought them home,
thundering hooves and swollen bellies, ready to spark
and fire the dry bony floor, sulphuric aroma real as rain.

But now, the horses of white lightning gallop toward me
afraid of nothing, they rush with an eye for hesitation
ready to brush up against my heart with their horse madness.

Here, it is the rider standing in the wavering heat, erect
and indisputable as a lightning rod braced in the open
I stand my ground and wait, ready to hold on for dear life.

Denise Sweet is a graduate of UWEC, faculty emerita for the UW-System and  former Poet Laureate of Wisconsin. More and about Denise.