Bedroom window sunset:
a biblical glow, yellow rays
like the fingers of God poking holes in the hills,
filling them with liquid gold.
I run for the camera. Over my shoulder yellows
metamorphose into rush-ahead pinks. No film.
In a drawer, earthbound fingers dredge through
underwear and jewels for a small black cartridge
to buss and spin in the camera
like a bluebottle trapped in a window.
Light dims my dash around the corner,
flings my fired feet over the wooden stile.
I feel for the camera,
then lift my head, defeated, in the dark,
meet the eyes of a muscled brown mare
telling me to be still and watch the horizon
self-destruct under a blood-mottled moon.