drinking spirit from acorn-cups,
they ready themselves to ride.
there are maidens, clothed only
in shadow, hiding behind
the bars of the rushes;
finger-combing sable hair
in starlight and still
autumn water
there are holes in the path
pebbles caught between
shoe and cloven hoof
man goes forth, into the night,
carrying iron and fire
there are lilies and the albino rose
woven bodies of grass
demur and inviolate
waiting to be plucked
from the road-side
the riders press on
the breath of wet nostrils
streams like steam to the sky
catching the light like a net
only as thin as the butterfly
the lightning-bugs and cicadas
choking on the plague that sings
in the drafty hints of the wind
the hush and chill of winter
make their last enchantment
revel in the silver light
dance to the fiddle of spring
refusing to pass away
the horses cut through the night like a prayer
in the sky, the angels and serpents
and stars are crying
as they sharpen silver blades
the two auroras, dragons
of current and spectrum,
tear at one another's numerologies
snapping pale lightning
of many ominous colors
in banks of dismal cloud
by the blurry edge
of the loamy gravel path,
quicksand, asleep and hungering
in anxious fits
beneath uncertain ground,
the hydrangeas are dying
into constellations
the war of the heavenly host
but the moon has nary a ripple
in her feathery light
the riders call, golden song
warming their hearts
like the molten gold of the liquor
with the thud of hooves
like muted bells
ride on, ride on,
as long as you've beasts to ride upon.
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