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If you were here now I too would 
speak of horses encountered on a 
hill in the south of France, Monthaut, 
its ruined church without knees, 
sun low over foothills of the Pyrenees.

From shadowed trees downhill
at least 20 of them run to me. 
I feel them before they appear, 
hooves tearing dirt and grass 
in their manic ascent up the 
steep arriving like excited 
birds, haunches quivering, 
damp from late-summer heat.

Their soft noses push my hands, 
their chests pure press 
hard against barbed wire. 
They offer themselves to me, 
their long necks extend 
heads dipping shyly, 
not without some blood -


I think of you now as I did then, 
remembering our bellowing lungs 
in rich shared air, odors entwined 
of earth, mane, those sweet
grasses, and the binding brier
where they stamped, trembling.



Not poetry here, 
Old Master; 
just reporting, 

how it all breaks open
blindly between doldrums, 
dark hammock refusing 
to be swayed on a bad day. 

Something is here you already 
know but if there is forgetting on
the other side of the fence 
I remind you now.

My hands caress
echoing equine graces.
In their eyes I can see 
in that way of all breezes 
finally where you went.
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