All The Wild Horses by Ray LaMontagne

compass

i edit my self (pare
my heart

down to shreds,
tossing

whim up to the whim / trying to decide)
which

way to go:
into the east,
the

rising,

the uproarious melting pot / and snow
that

waits for me (again) or

toward the west, where
sunset

tinted earthquakes and
alfalfa covered dreams

flaunt

the unhumid heat
of perpetual summer?

i edit my words,
pare

my dreams down to shreds,
trying

to not be split in half
(by

incongruous dreams)...