no less - 

          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. 

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