The horizons ring me like faggots,Tilted and disparate, and always unstable.Touched by a match, they might warm me,And their fine lines singe The air to orangeBefore the distances they pin evaporate,Weighting the pale sky with a solider color.But they only dissolve and dissolveLike a series of promises, as I step forward.There is no life higher than the grasstopsOr the hearts of sheep, and the windPours by like destiny, bending Everything in one direction.I can feel it tryingTo funnel my heat away.If I pay the roots of the heatherToo close attention, they will invite meTo whiten my bones among them.The sheep know where they are,Browsing in their dirty wool-clouds,Grey as the weather.The black slots of their pupils take me in.It is like being mailed into space,A thin, silly message.They stand about in grandmotherly disguise,All wig curls and yellow teethAnd hard, marbly baas.