Balios and Xanthos
mute in paper garlands
draw tourists once
around the park
(they have to be
somewhere)
their names chime
like something
you might need
more of
to restore perspective
help you sleep
a whole night
even while grieving
the stranger
who’s peeled
his heart that
centerless onion
interleaving layers
of terrible sad terrible
his dry heart
no longer expects
to hear his name
spoken in a glad voice
the old old horses
flow toward the west
looking for a place
to stop time
huge tearless eyes
tell how small
the world
& empty
how it rolls away
Published in Menacing Hedge
Martha McCollough 