Sleek and stiff and new the horse gallops
up the bare earth. White trees,
folded leaves in the blazing early morning
draw back in suppressed ardor. Wet sun
dries on the grey grasses. Is the air awake
that hums with reverie –- in this blood
pounding the heart, racing the sounds of insects?
The bones of the horse gallop
in imagined meters. This is day, this is
night: white leaves in the wakeful darkness,
trees skirting tremorously the shining earth.
The sound of the stiff new pale
unexercised horse always beginning
uncaptured, unestranged, clearing a path
on bare ground, tears through the imagining
phantom world with a rhythm like dry thunder.