ACROSS THE FIELD

by irene o'garden

 

who is that

laboring so hard

 

steam rising

from the sweating

flanks and is that

 

blood and feathers

twisted underneath

the shoulder bindings

 

mangled mane

chest rubbed raw

hitched hard even

 

under the genitals

salt sweat some sad

clock of work

 

dribbling

over the soil

unsweetened for seeds

 

until a wind

 

clanks buckles down

long lungs fill

stiff wings de-cordion

 

one circle cheek tips

up, one gold eye

remembers sky