107

Sometimes by Night

Sometimes by night I heard along the shore

the stamp and neigh of wild green horses from the sea

calling for us to ride them.

The jealous waves tentacled their feet.

They beat futilely to rise above the quaking sand

And wilder, always wilder sounded their summoning.

I stepped out from my dark woods toward them

risking the terrible drum of hoof and heart

and brought my bridle toward the restive stallion.

I touched his Protean face, and suddenly

a great white horn spiraled like bonehard spirit

and I leapt to cut short Pegasus’ needless wings.

Then from the clamor and quail of churning, sea-trapped bodies

we rode up into mountains that were solid air.

Sometimes now, pitying the night, we return to that shore

to gather the tired fallen stars, floating

on the restless waters—ride past the wild tumult

of ghostly motion and the thin, despairing cries behind us—

and I toss lost stars back up the emptying sky.

And then his diamond hooves strike fire from the rocky waves

and my warm hands pulse with liquid starlight.