Triumph, anger, joyous motion,
six stallions gathering their speed
to dash across the street to greener fields,
to dance as foals in the fountain.
But to horses forged of bronze, the road
is broad enough to be a lake,
a river running four lanes wide,
its currents carry busses and team with schools
of silver, darting students.
We learn in college,
why so much depends on a red wheelbarrow,
why membranes invisible to the unaided eye
admit caffeine more easily than protein structures,
why silicon dissolves, encrusting ancient bones
in opalescent stone.
We do not learn why the artist,
a worker in bronze, his name consigned
to a plaque, bird droppings, and the wind,
elected to make each rearing horse,
with love of detail and love of truth--
and it is not a fact a child
of six will easily let pass--
to make each rearing horse--walk gently here--correct,
equipped for restlessness and love,
lust, discontent, long nights sighing,
wishing that the mare imbri was his own,
Still-cast in bronze, but yearning
for the fountain, for the green grass,
and for the warmth of flesh.