High Horse

By D.C. Leonhardt

Rawlins, WY at Night

In my room, the lights are off.
There is a tree bustling outside my window
Where I cross my arms against the sill to look out
And I can see the bright pricks of town,
The apartment across the alley
With its lights on, and four plants between
The closed curtain and the cold glass.
A gentle breeze is sucked into the room —
An open window in the winter
So the covers aren’t too warm.
The curtains across the way are drawn back now,
But I do not see who did it.
I am too busy feeling the wind against my face.
The baseboard heater is warm against my shins.
I lean my head against the white trim around the window
And close my eyes.
I think of the shivering tree set about with snow.
When I lay down on the bed with the pillow that’s too soft,
I smell the tragic scent of laundry detergent,
Old apartment, and winter air
And fall asleep to the sounds of the highway.
 
Black & Green & All the Other Muted Colors

& sometimes you wake up
with the clock always stuck
between 2&3 a.m.
why can’t you sleep.
then sometimes you walk
to the living room
& knock your left knee
against the arm
of the couch
& swear
& turn on a desk lamp
& stare.
it is never too dim,
but sometimes too bright.
what is nature
you say as you stare
at your porch’s metal railing
through the curtains.
why do we say
i am not in it.
it is dark & it is warm.
you turn off the lamp.
already dreams are beginning
to blossom behind
your still-open eyes.
 
Sybille Canyon

The mountains to the east are rising
Out of the ground as I drive toward them
Over snow-packed and windy roads.
Twice, I felt my rear tires slip
On a long patch of ice and my jaw
Clamped down hard. It stayed locked
For miles after each time.

The world is cast in cold light blue
Between the blank sky and the
Scalloping snowbanks.
The gusts today are strong enough
To ragdoll the sedan I’m driving
At every car that passes and with every
Hill between the wind
And me.

I pass the cars that drive the speed
I should be driving. Having not yet wrecked
On winter roads has given me
An unfortunate confidence. I know this,
And I’ve cleaned up winter wrecks
For my father’s towing business,

But I don’t slow down. I have to drive
With the music too loud to keep myself from
Thinking. I do too much of that on the road.
And when the road’s as open as this,
I always remember too much.

And how could I not when I know
These roads so well?

I look repeatedly at the open seat beside me.

I cannot sing loud enough.

D.C. Leonhardt is a poet and musician currently living and working in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Originally from Wyoming — where he studied Philosophy and Creative Writing at the state’s only university — his poetry often showcases scenes and attitudes from the wide open spaces of the Mountain West. His poems have appeared in Main Street Rag, Zone 3, Peauxdunque Review, Waxing & Waning, and more.