Sport 33: Spring 2005
Marty Smith
Marty Smith
[A poem by Marty Smith]
no horse
has equal tone
in all four hooves
the odd
sauntering sound
syncopated
like a rough unsteady
heart and I
listen
to the spaces
uneven as what
they will find out:
I am glass, a fake
winter
I set my wall: sit
behind beneath
sharp-scraped hooves
I block
the blue veins of
the moon
its yellow eye
our lost intimacy with horses
where we live now
disconnected
from creatures
into a metal world
we things of thinness
too close to the ground
to spin and leap in bloods
some ghost
shadow flicker-run
like films on cave walls
fat-shined dapple moves
like shades
everyday horses
are strange to us, and lost
as hidden nerves
buried leaps
all the underneath
ticking of the world
horses tell us
when to be afraid