I hear the hooves of my own hot death riding me down with horsemen
Jorge Luis Borges
death, riding for me too,
almost handsome, no less!
Equine legs (all I ever wanted for a good run)
run along the wild
hill overlooking my dream estate -
clouds rummaging overhead, passing
in and out of one another in patterns
too quick to understand.
All around is meaning, tempered
in the green lawn, wide sky, cliff
waiting for the horse to leap/
and the horse, now turning to me into me,
me turning over a hesitant gesture
that might be taken for a farewell wave.
Karen Neuberg
I'm a poet living with my husband in Brooklyn and West Hurley, NY. My work has appeared in Diagram, 42Opus, elimae, The Dirty Napkin, Ditch and others. I'm a Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, hold an MFA from the New School, and am an assistant editor of Inertia Magazine.
