“that strange gratuity of horses.”
Hart Crane

I stop as the horses thunder past,
Heart lifted with them, breath caught.
Horses made of moons and meadows
Chase the wind
At the speed of their own black light,
Or glowing, gleaming chestnut
Coming out of fog,
Following the sun to its stable of fire.
Space and earth leap in their strides;
Their hooves storm like hailstones.
The mist clears in their wake
Like the mane of a lightning bolt
Over the trembling pasture.
A white horse turns to shadow,
Galloping over the salt of stars.
Then they’re gone,
Like night into deeper night—
Yet their fire lingers behind my eyes.