Loined lines of his 17th string quartet
linger in clearing, stallions measuring
one another, then brief as twigs snap, set
and dash through rippling creek, legs treasuring
each stretch, hooves honoring each subtle step,
each leap, cut and graceful lean through forest’s
impromptu avenues, narrow as sep-
ulchres. All this flowing throughout my best
self, and suddenly I hear Socrates,
Shakespeare, William Packard, and Bill Wilson
in chorus: How shall we live? As we please
or as some ghost-stallion carries us on
this sacred hunt? I hear Mozart’s refrain.
I cry out deep within. Let go the reins.
Roger Armbrust
May 1, 2010
