Come,  my horse, meanwhile I saddle you.

None wants you to bring grace to the bullrings

but to repel your sagacious impulse

and learn to accept the pace of the track

the lash of the whip and submissively

deliver your defiant pride to sit–

Come, my horse, they say that what is abreast

and is certain is uncertain:  molten

as stanzas from the deep of my soul give birth

shooting their red plumes from its pure fountain

blast past  the sedate surface of the earth

spraying their drops in a thousand red clouds

and shouldn’t be sung rather formed in molds

empty and sweetened superficially

revered by the pedants and plagiarists

who scream out, “Go to hell!”–when through the doors

of autumnal temples, a free man sees–

Come, my horse, with your bright helmet

for sweet herbs and flowers of scented plains,

cast cinches and straps on a pious trunk

where what dries under the sun is revived

from the cosmetic and costumed scholar

of green yesterdays rife with nostalgia

golden and ornately adorned Greek gems–

steer for the bright light dawn hatches open

and race with arrogance toward a new orb.