this stable’s wood is smooth,
stalls varnished in high gloss-
temptation in squares and angles
and the saddles on the wall.

my feet are sinking in sweet hay,
my fingers tense and waiting-
my spine half ampersand,
half arrow.

this stable’s horses stare me down
like monoliths sculpted in flesh,
sleek coats New York would envy
and the curve of ephemeral smiles.

my breath is caught:
sunlight glistens off heaving flanks,
ensconced in white hair,
flecking black hair in (cliche) diamonds.

frozen here, i am a statue
to the horses’ obelisks:
do i suit up and climb astride,
or run away?


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