The horse is a feral forest
Invisible to the coming man, like a frieze of the skies on the moors that its visitors drew in, unconsciously
The forest is a metaphysical corral
A space for the herd, the mob, their band of grazers, the harems of your timeless seasons
Into the wild of its duple galop
The forces of law rest in his loins
The wooden hoof anatomy, plated with some brave mettle, a croup d'état in the glade of the Icelandic Althing of yesterday
The somber clearing of its elders' embers that smoldered for years and never took fright
The far-east a de beaux restes, tu sais, "embrace them, babe", says he with the hoarse voice of a tiger, almost
The unrestrained muscle
Of a forest he set in motion
Free falling into his arms and legs
With a great deal of gumption
Requests of a fire to run the gamut of the creaks of its floorboard
The Great Boston Choir suddenly quieted for good
The birches have their soul in their forearms
They write it warm-blooded, as a mental sinew encoded right on their skin
Like you chew the fibres of your own bark.
Under the transpiring leaves of your white-hot racing hearts before that insoluble ghost rider
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