But for mounds of crumbling dung the old horse has disappeared. Ropes of dried dog shit lay like braids piled atop a faker’s head. Wearing a cloche hat with a feather sticking up, a demon is standing at my door trying to get in. “Go away!” I yell. “I don’t need you anymore!” Like a bird rising to where my thoughts were, a poem begins: In January, Poseidon's bull gores fat clouds, causing winds to moan in as myth pregnant with glistening horses emerging from seas's sodden bed to gallop across the sky as gray cumulonimbus beings.