Poets

I have never been bumped in a saddle as a horse springs from one diagonal to another, a two-beat gait, light and balanced, as the four-beats per stride become the hair-blowing,

The sun stamps his shadow on the wall and he’s left one wheel of his bicycle spinning. It is dusk, there are a few minutes

Through the end of an old Coke bottle he tracks the flight of a petrel, until it is tattered by sea-wind and another blurred mintage of the sun. Along the pier, he hears the men with their