Day 73 of 100 Poems/100 Days


It is all the same color,
as if all from the same tree.

I found his saddle,
higher than my head,
rusty bit fit in mouth,
like a gear into stick.

In old age, but I broke him free,
stole him, the way I steal things.

Past an hour,
my grip tired,
its body wet,
a black blur,
like a trail of flesh.

‘Faster, hunter, faster’,
but which of us said this?

I tried to steer the ship
that steers me.

Slept along its belly,
and still heard our feet.

But did I steal him,
or did he steal me?


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s