I know this anatomy of white chutzpah
The intractable whiteness of its steps
in the snow I am a white horse ranting
I move as whitely as one must
I am a resting horse
Thinking irregular thoughts
About what's sleeping
Under the white drifting
I have a heart a shadow a book
A shadowbook of heart questions
This is no experiment
Says the snowdrift in her white suit
In your future, he says,
all things will be heavy
Rain arrives from many directions.
I kiss and kiss the bride
and grow more wet,
more horse-like by the minute.
Within my slicker I conceal
a photograph of brown horses.
I use it to shim the short leg
on my poem-chair. A small array
of necessities, an acorn breeze:
I feel kingly, squirreling this
and that into the dark, irrelevant mud.
To read more poems by Michael Loughran, please click here to purchase JUBILAT 11