• Vol. 09
  • Chapter 02
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Bronze Warrior

Cold to the touch, I place my hand upon your
frozen nose, your lost and lonely stare.
     You do not stir.

I name you, like a racehorse given best odds,
pray you back to life, to cantering home.
              You do not stir.

I wrap my arms around your missing mane,
stroke the long line of you, blue-bruised in bronze.
                            Will you not stir.

Your nostrils flicker wet in dream of furlongs,
fetlocks, freedom’s dawn up against the rails.
                                     Stir! Stir!

Cold to the touch and statue-still, I place my hand
upon your tree-trunk form, offer torn grass.
                                             Be still my warrior.