Turkish Horses

When you called out in Turkish,
in your sleep,
I thought of the horses locked
in the barn
and their copper bodies brooding
like cathedral bells in their stalls.
I sat up in the bed,
and looked at what there was to see of you,
the crescent of black hair across your eyes,
your breast roosting in the crook
of an elbow,
and wondered who it is you speak to now,
and I remembered the freezing
rain whipping against the
shoulders of the barn,
and then the thunder, as though
it had rung from inside.

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