by Matthew Cherry

Shall we cut our rhymes from that ridge of coal,
that crawls beneath the owl-watched pine?

So green,
my memory,
and true.

What does he see?
That ancient mare,
in earth stirring.

That blackening equine gaze,
those leonine thighs.

Pacing in circles,
the width of my gyre,
we wear a white-bird torque,
the study of sodium,
armor against a clean death by drought.

Her hands,
broken sticks,
slipped through my fingers.

We pressed on, alone,
through the desert,
white shadows cut from the cloth of fear.