Sunday, August 31, 2003

GAME PLAN 1—after Sesshu Foster

GAME PLAN 1—after Sesshu Foster

The road goes on. Yes. Into a river. What was the game plan? To plunge in deep. To observe light rippling into shadow where the willow roots drink deep. Where the swallows dip down. Where the mare is tearing at the grass. The road not taken. Where we forded the river.

To the body's transgressions. To a life half lived. To a half life on the shell. To artillery. An explosion of doves. Is this the part where you duck & cover? Cheval de friese. Archaic names of war found in a field manual. Foundered. Labor long unto darkness. To the choices made. Was that the game plan?

The mare, she, pulled up short. Now I lay me... Remember to fund yourself. If only. Not regret. Observe leaves practicing flight, late afternoon. She came up short. Empty shore. Name the distinction between sea and sky. Her crooked legs failed her, Man o War blood in her veins. Her eye always on the horizon. Riding her into the wind. As if there was no end to it.

To fund the intellect the way of the psyche.

Is there a manual for that? To think we were once the wind. And now living in the present tense while sirens... Ordnance. The odor of pine, chaparral under the hot sun. Lughnasadh. End of summer. Before the fall. Hot flashes. Red mare, faster than verb. To be or not to question this life. We were in the race. But tortured dreams ran me down, tied me up in sheets. To ride like that.

Asylum from the mind, from the body.

To know flight. Call it God. Then, foundered horsepower.

Fear of mortality, fear of death. Fighting the prison of the mind. Clipped wings. I came up short. How many horses under the hood? To find a river, to fund a relationship, to found a life. To lose it. Then what?

Before the event horizon, at the race track, I looked up at her ancestor cast in bronze. We always used to yell at the slowest: Come on Seabiscuit! But a car was threading the road toward a determined republic of blood. Now I lay me down, down down... No, not in the middle of the road. Ashamed, we fought darkness. Gazing up between the oaks, I couldn't leave all that blue. No, not yet. In the middle of the road under all that cerulean sky. Let there be time to catalogue all the colors of the wind. To watch hawks tumbling down. No, not the siren. Not the needle aimed at her heart, too long for thought. Not that plunge into flesh. Deep. A whisper of wings into the dark.



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