No coachman’s padded rest for my body.
Mount me on muscled flesh of the left front
stallion, ancestor from Poseidon’s seed
who seems to breed salt sea through pores. We hunt
unknown rutted highways as one, respond
with single reflex to dip, bend and rise,
feel brash wind slap our manes, our bodies fond
of refreshing rain, sparking sun, our eyes
flashing at night from dark road to bright stars
and mystic moon, swarthy forests swiping
at our shoulders. What life can be bolder
than latching legs to massive galloping
loins, than pressing groin to back, face to crest,
hearing speared hooves pursue great earth’s conquest?
Roger Armbrust
September 10, 2010
