I pull my chapbook out of my chaps, at the high
Chaparral beyond Chapman. All judgement
Is overcome, by the spirit of our will, like the sun,
To let go.
Who we have always been waits for our
Recognition.
This time the Roman aqueduct toll road has vanished
But the hangar and pylon ruins in the dust sun of Tustin
Still loom in lilac over fields of never-to-be-duplicated green.
The canyon road only goes to the moon
That grows in wisdom
While we contemplate the burning away of spring,
As the glow of the last mustard lingers.
It’s time to get going on who we are
Instead of what we don’t want to be.
A horse locked in the arena, without a human, pleads
“Can you help a brother out?” Instead, I offer him apples
Even though they make him frothy.
Brio canters, aiming to please,
Feels our thoughts, prances in the dripping Orange Julius
Ball of sun that holds nothing back, as the track shows
The day’s horseshoe scars in purple
Shadows and turbulent gold.
Head down, he races, with his eyes on my pen. It’s him
Or me, in constant balancing
Til the bedroom-eyed mare
Squeals, another smitten filly dutifully ignored,
As the one with the lopsided face looks on.
The spearmint spring in the sun,
Insects spiral, there’s a long disconsolate note
Of blue bird.
The owner’s white horse Captain
Is a jumper, large enough to leap the fence
In a second if he has to, but he’s content
To reach the grass the other horses can’t.
He rides in the air
Like a ghost, the last of the sun blazing
Like a dragon’s tail, without fear, which is
The Lord of every horse.
It’s the kind of light
I can disappear in, to be, free of
The iron shoe of others, in the void of
Knowing everything
And knowing all of it is me,
Embodied in some chaste form to be learned of,
What would be experienced too directly.
The precious moments of reddening hills:
The spray of the fly repellent, the mud flung
Off the hooves, the sound of the crows as
Their glittering feathers are combed
One last time across the final light.
