Friday, July 13, 2012

Moving in what has not passed



It knows these things—the appaloosa with the man
on her back—the rider in the shiny horse without a
tail passing where the blind curve meets the short bridge,
how it moves past with no regard for the proud care
in her braided mane, the sunflaxed hoofs lost on what
moves too fast to consider all her kind gave and
bore through histories both known and forever lost.

Great eyes lash the reigned surprise of it rounding
from the thick reeds beyond where her gait has yet
to carry her. The saddled rider nods at the seated
rider and both know their place in the scheme of
what bears which rider where, how they arrive in
such different times to meet at this present place.


Tread and cartilage, one hushed by slow asphalt,
the other clopping a ton and a half per square inch
back into the country air where vegetables splay
out in rows toward mountains that rise like manes
of rock and precipice, where all growing things take
their rooted measure as the mirror offers a glancing
view before the horse’s rear and rhythm vanish.

Up the hill I press the pedal now, the heft of her
still moving in what has not passed, what cannot
pass until I let go the reign of her beauty fall free,
the solemn pace, hick and clitch, down the lost lane,
the equilibrium returning as a flashing whip of
hair flicks fly, a loose stirrup left for my foot.

Joseph Gallo
July 1, 2012



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