Near to the Savage Heart (close to the wild heart)

I thought, if there are horses left, (or even heroes) their soft hooves will hurt on the field trip to the moon. And if there is memory left, I'll use it to forget the auburn horses quivering from flesh to shield, lift, if there is shelter left, not the shelter to want it but the turn. The end of wit will be a good common subconscious and the white fell out of they sky like ripple fruit, a fist, for stillness, for the cradles in my legs that they may continue to cause themselves the way words do away with wit and get me to a submarine