To Blois, to reach Lyon via Vareness,
abroad and freshly abroad, on the sea tho wayward.
I saw this month what I couldn’t see.

The legs, the seat, the hands (through the reins) and the voice,
used less often than other aids. The area behind the withers,
where the saddle goes, extending to the last thoracic vertebrae.

I go by on every purpose of these,
not to those overseas, nor back to my home.
I am what I remember of the friend, the son.
Uncle stay with Aunt.
For as many as may at a gallop pace, follow me downriver.
Goats eat ivy. Mares eat oats. In mud none are. In oak no one.

In math as mathematicians, in physics as physicists,
build upon the body of Christ. My dear friends, anoint them
to be more than a single Christ, saviour of man.
To the shopping centers, khans, baths and pavillions.
To the whole of the city, and to some small mosques.
Think only of your heart, and how it is no longer.
Not to theft or beating death. Ignore Ruin. It does not come.



One response to “Horse

  1. Pingback: Book 1 - Table of Contents « New American Writing

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