so i say to my neighbour
the small horse
its thrumming hoofbeats becoming a scene from Twelfth Night
is perhaps a liftbridge somewhere in New England

the enemy continues drawing its little pictures:
a buffalo bursting into flame as our leader hits it with an arrow
the sound a wolf makes
discovering it isn't a dog

i've got my lawnmower, some gasoline and a match
but i'm not interested in symbols
in inch-high grass burning late in the afternoon

a cool breeze rakes in from the lake
people with briefcases walk down our street
looking for symbols
men discover they're not wolves
hold paper matchbooks ominously
stand on the porch
trying to look like leaders

a buffalo bursts into flame
my copy of Othello gets rained on
i lift my arms up
then down
make my mouth into
the shape of a small horse

after the fire
after i've dug for days
my lawn will look like the inside of a cave
the surface of the moon

i'll spend the summer drawing
pictures of New England
helping myself to
anything
from your fridge:
a beer or two
a small horse pickled in brine