Cold
her smile is 30
degrees the guarantee of
snow to these poor horselatitude doldrums
o my heart is a coal bin
full of snowmen’s eyesready to lend sight
to the siberian grace
of her winter smile[God! Youth is full of romantic aspirations. But I did love words then.]
HORSE LATITUDES
When the still sea conspires an armor
And her sullen and aborted
Currents breed tiny monsters,
True sailing is dead.
Awkward instant
And the first animal is jettisoned,
Legs furiously pumping
Their stiff green gallop,
And heads bob up
Poise
Delicate
Pause
Consent
In mute nostril agony
Carefully refined
And sealed over.
[Jim Morrison, Lamenting the deaths of Spanish horses thrown overboard on the horse latitudes.]
