THE HORSE

for Jere Martin

Actually clamoring
open here
the mere fact
of walking away
from oneself to edge
like horse minus rider
or is it the opposite
or is it a map
of us learning how to turn
itself on? I suppose I could
say anything in the vibration
between selves a crude rippling
how by breath it conspires
with greatnesses not our own
one small and suffocating
which duly loses itself
in the coarse rush
just to appear
what it needs
what it needs
actually clamoring
open here
this horseless
panic made frank
like a hand
breaking forth tendrils
of new scarlet readiness
to lunge against solemnity
like a horseless rider
leaves the desert of aiming
somewhere to rush everywhere simultaneously
red tendrils softly tearing off
in gaping chasms of summer thought
nothing now if not more intermissions
between the pattern of self-light
which strobes across the body
tricking every last stillness cinematic
from the jilting red depths
of a lonely hibernation
a desperate maroon sleep
under dusty stalagmite trees
a horseless rider
whose every direction
screams home