the hero out of stories
comes swooping in on a white charger
sweeping up in uncompromising arms
and muting protest with a mouth
tough as a final demand
and the bailiffs already at the door
is it love?
Do I get to say
with this kind of dream
or is it as unnegotiable
as the small print at the bottom of the loan?
I pat the horse and offer it an apple
but it never breaks step
not even when I fall
and my head hits
that providential stone.