Toward an ellipse, they run
across the bayou afternoon absorbs,
stones outlining the course
that is painted

with the blood of broken strides. As persistent
as the moon that closes
behind, impending revolution
where speed becomes constant

and recounts the sleeping dark.
They are suspicious of the light that wells
around their hooves, whispering
a psalm the nightingale sang,

and echoes over head; they anoint
the stars with sweat, muscles burning
tight as they stampede
the great curve below their feet.

Only when they dare
to stop and rest their bones in the still
do they float with the clouds
toward the horizon.