The town still smells of horses
long after. The dim sky senses moisture
with piqued nostrils, gathering
across lipped leaves in whorls,
perspiring. Bricks do not sweat out
the flesh that warmed them;
animal musk remains long past
the animal: rainwater canters and
snorts its way from cloud to
earth and back — gone and gone
then gone again, hooves steady
in their distance, like a patch of
road where there is always
an engine churning its flanks,
dim sky lathered and
heaving with steam.

—
Ben Meyerson’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in journals such as Epignosis Quarterly and The Inflectionist Review. He has a chapbook coming out in 2016 with The Alfred Gustav Press entitled In A Past Life.