robert dickerson

My magic coach was broken-
stilled and steeped in mud
wheel on axle lounged;
Crazily the car leaned
into darkness.

Horses-dead in their traces,
pillowed on lightning-scorched loins
each others heads,
piteous companions
come to such beds.

Footmen deserted-all fourteen.
The page sat and cried;
Through the windows' embrasure
whined and sighed the wind,
triumphant lorelei.