Brook Sadler      Tampa               (Donald Morrill)
White Horse Running Loose

I want to turn a white horse running loose on a highway overpass
in the south of France— 
its white mane streaking against the blue sky
like a mythic messenger loosed from Olympus 
and sent with the full intent of a rankled Zeus 
or jealous Athena to speed the course of human events
toward conclusions we unwitting mortals would drive right by--

I want to turn a white horse running loose on a highway overpass
in the south of France— 
its white gallop against the traffic
like a medieval ghost charging forth, its rider fallen, 
emerging from the centuries as from battle,
clouds rising behind it like the smoke of a burned village,
bearing its noble purpose to fulfill some troubadour’s forgotten promise--

I want to turn a white horse running loose on a highway overpass
in the south of France— 
its dark nostrils like two coals, 
legs and hooves like pistons, eyes glossy as volcanic glass,
muscled motion fluid as a wave’s crest, curl, and final
unfurl, rolling toward shore, momentum that exhausts
and renews itself without pause--

I want to turn a white horse running loose on a highway overpass
in the south of France into a symbol in a poem, 
but I cannot get a fix on it.
We were driving at 90 km/h, when it appeared above us,
a momentary flash, and it was gone.
A rift in the universe had opened and quickly sealed,
leaving only this recollection, wild, unbridled.