"Ride off into the sunset."
It's so big and orange, you feel erased
in heat waves cooling down. You
stare, as you can, into that orb
and see its flares and spots
as if you'd been invited to bathe,
as if you were looking at the bottom
of a pool through warping...
Pining is unsexy.
Sand is dusty and shifty,
and your frames sink and drift with each
step of the generous horse.
With your sword tip whirling
a goodbye to any onlooker,
slowly, slowly,
you are unifying with the thread of the horizon.
That is what they see: you merge
and crest, a phantom suspended, flowing.
What actually happens?
Did you fall over the lip of the dunes?
Is the sun a great big swimming pool of gold?

When you go far enough,
up is no longer up, and left and right
no longer port or starboard. Up
is the past, and down
is forward. Down is for
the hidden center of the hot,
crunchy, chewy lollipop magenta below, which
is not a sea or a figment, but the expanse
around land that makes land itself. It
is the generator of all terra firma, the rechargeable
space softly bracketing realizations economic and
so on. It is the lava lamp god, or maybe you are
the lava lamp god returning to your Olympus,
your Ararat, your Kilimanjaro.

You wish you could rise and set how it went,
how you became someone else's,
but you won't remember that.