Where the horses fall

This is the dream
where the horses fall,
where bling colours tear
at the darkish turf,

where the playful grass,
innocently,
infantly,
snatches at eyes,

where the gargoyalan
megaphones
clamour hoarsely
at the track,

where the crystal
champagne flutes
snap clean
in the stem,

where your paramour
rises
and walks out
(a walking flower!),

where high in the stands,
undercover,

the wind is reading
a newspaper,

where you are left feeling
a deep remorse

for having watched,
and then for looking away.