The Outskirts

At some point the city gives up and goes away

though you couldn’t say precisely where or why.

Perhaps it’s at the bridge over the motorway

though it’s not really, it’s more in the mood

of the buildings, half-hidden behind trees, disused,

and sheets of newspaper cartwheeling to mishap

in the long grass by second-hand dealerships

at this border where people are only moving through,

never from or to. Unless they live here, of course,

which in a way we do, although there isn’t a human

soul in sight, only, in this field a piebald horse

tied by a wet rope to the heart of dawn

all the way through to night and the night’s damp,

illuminated faintly, last time you looked, by a streetlamp.