[A poem by Marty Smith]

no horse
has equal tone
in all four hooves

the odd
sauntering sound
syncopated

like a rough unsteady
heart and I

listen
to the spaces
uneven as what

they will find out:
I am glass, a fake
winter

I set my wall: sit
behind beneath
sharp-scraped hooves

I block
the blue veins of
the moon

its yellow eye