Concatenation

Just as there are words for what
there are no words for, horses
                                                        pound riderless

up slopes
to reach the crest no longer horse
but nags of dissembling smoke,

                                                        many hands high,
drifting to kiss the surface
of irrigation ponds

where blackened coots
                                          bob the light chop.
How swiftly the familiar is queered.

Like this man
who wakes in a state recalling
locations of lost objects and surges

about his house reclaiming,
                                                        only to kneel
beside the dryer linked

to all he ever lost.
                                          The black sock
fished with a wire sits

crumpled in his hand like a word
for the start to the end
                                                        of his undoing.