The rocking horse dreams of riding the carousel; the carousel horse would

like to escape but has nightmares about being set free from music and dizzying

excitement, left to move back and forth, back and forth, in a merely mechanical

jog, as monotonous as the sea swaying back and forth, depositing on and licking

salt from the pilings separating earth from sea that support everything, balancing

change and constancy. You come to a crossroads on your horse of a different color,

look at the signs. This way lies madness; that way, sadness, some other way,

gladness; it's all very hypothetical. (And, possibly, even medical.) You could look

to the moon for advice, but its crystal ball, buoyed by all the vacuum it's swallowed

to get here, goes where the water tells it to, a Japanese glass float riding the

waves without comment.