You are getting closer,
I hear the crunch of soft sand,
the skitter of stones beneath your boots.
Your scent passes through my parted lips
stinging the flare of my nostrils and the choke
in my throat while your hands of steel butterflies
float over proud bones luring me gently
to the killing fields.
Your fingers are the scent of tanned leather,
I lick them like fresh flesh wounds.
Your feathered crop gently brushes my shoulders,
no one can save me now, there is nothing to do,
because you have always known how
to break wild horses.