It is nothing new
for horses to be harnessed to hemispheres
it has happened at intervals

Oh it’s Christmas time in Omaha Nebraska!
“Almost alive” red lips say through the panes.
His blue eye, his brown eye, his chipped ear.

I awake, three in the morning, sweating
from a dream of possums.
I put my head under the fuzzy swamp of cover.

Sheet-monger, blanket-hoarder,
wool gatherer of nightmares,
wrapped in white linen like a corpse,

Somewhere between Norway and Ireland
volcanic rocks and glaciers leap from the sea
My map has failed me, I’m there

Molds are made, two figures cast,
their plaster bodies glistening and since
light across a modulated surface

Show the runner coming through the shadows,
  show him falling into a speckled rhythm,
  and then show the full expression of light,

Heathrow could not touch things. 
They always shied away from him.

He was magnetic, but in the anti-sense of the word. 

Fat Russian novels are sinking
like grandmothers into the snow,
and a troika is whisking through my sleevs

I drove all night, and followed the morning sun 
to craggy coastal inlets as green as if 
the autumn wind that blows so very cold,