Speed
James Howell There is a distance between cupped fold of hand and hazel-mossed face that begs crossing. I gather streaming sight in hand, daring to lick eyes up at this mountain of muscle, hair, hoof; she seems the force of all desire unridden. Midnight-eyes thin to slit while breath claps in bolts. She paws at sun with nail-head foot before growing long with speed among hay-bales warped in summer’s heat into whorls like ten hundred sleeping stars. |