If we could choose,
I think we’d want white horses.
They look good in light,
tearing green around their feet
not looking up, not minding us.
We’d want them going fast enough
to get us past the obvious,
despite their breath pushed hard
around the bit we wish we didn’t need
to get us out of here.
Turning easy at our hands, of course
caparisoned, smooth-gaited, bearing us
with cadenced grace through bands of rain
and any lines arrayed against us, straight ahead,
even over fields of broken flowers.
They might come if we call,
if we choose the purity
of running things gone wild,
if we will keep watch on the dark horizon,
empty halters in our hands.