they burn, the afternoon and all the faces
of that ambiguity trickling, crystalline, down the flanks.
they oscillate, the mares, between heat and
fear, precise, upon the barley on fire.
awes, in the remoteness of eyes, the hurdles
may not be more insuperable, after all, than
the edge of the wind, once the manes are loose.
they ripen, the secret bows of the jump, already
a weight, licit, upon the croup and impetus within.
and one sole, ultimate neigh, rises, where
the vehemence of the wait unbridles all fundamentals
in the triumph of the sparks.
very close to the perceptible faces that drink
from that ambiguity like from one sole thirst
in the most crystalline of reflections.
burning, in the afternoon.
