Singlehanded
       

Black apertures in a field of ghost,
they come to me when the winter will be
their last, tacked in weather and slick cinch.

When we collapse, we collapse by the common law
of us, I do not peel the foil of cold from our stupor.
I forgot the lame hocks, fine as you'd guess,

and my jaw shovels a hum from the animal lung
I face. If it were so easy to throw a horse down,
you would all do it; you would hold

their tantrums with a strap.
No one can tell how bold and lonesome
sies choose their falls or me,

but I throw horses.
What a burden, what a beast
I've been.

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Copyright © 2015 Matt Salyer All rights reserved
from New Madrid
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission