Do We Ride Dark Horses Poem by James McLain

If I again ride or come nigh.
Leisurely paced,
and thrust into now.

The piston the ring
slowing it down.
To a reasonable pace
as I turn to the sound.

The horse is slapped
across her sweaty rump.
Ten thousand times.
To get on.

A valley some calls
one the butterfly.
Certain mountains
run off as before.

Deep at the gate
the sea is a tongue.
When free
it can never change.

Uncle Albert
my best friend loves you.
Golden and pure
they are
because your best friend
loves you.