The horses I rode

when younger,

younger than now

were made of clay

running in circles.

Stallions of the mind

nostrils flaring

thick flowing manes

clutched in my memory

riding high plains

of consciousness.

Thoroughbreds of thought

reaching a gold ring,

a child’s centrifuge,

a smile for no mother,

a wave for no father,

the carousel eternally

goes round and round.