The dream says when the horse enters 
it is not your horse it is everyone’s 
horse the same horse that has always been 
running, the collective horse in everyone’s 
amygdala, everyone tracking Bucephalus 
across the horizon. This is my horse though 
you say because I breathed into its nostrils 
thirty years ago it has carried me everywhere 
other than here and also here it has carried me 
and also I have carried it by which I mean to say, 
you tell the dream; you are the one 
making it drum across my skull. The dream 
braids the horse’s mane and tail 
with gorse and goldenrod. Heather. 
Heliotrope. The dream braids 
the horse’s mane and tail with twist ties 
and plastic bags. Names it Everlasting. 
Invites it into the living room, which 
troubles you at first. The dream asks 
if you have heard of root wedging, 
how the small thing expands over time 
to push the rocks apart. The dream 
runs a curry comb down your flank, 
breathes into your nostrils. Laughs 
when you protest. I am not a horse, 
‍you say. I am not a horse. I am not 
a horse.