Let’s not lie, there are a sinful number
of hymnals and albums full of fatality, enough to
fill acres and acres to the sky. They took root in the stories
repeated and repeated and repeated …

The old horse is again on fire, the
young pony, too, but
he is the distraction, and his blur of heat
is a sensation. He was bred to win and he wins he wins

he wins as we hear and repeat and repeat and repeat

Science knows every known and unknown pattern.
Patterns become songs,
become dance steps, steps we take and steps we did not take become the “Tarantella”

Ask me to look in your teacup and read you a fortune.
I see a horse bucking off its rider.
I see a dancer, her skirt turning around her.
I see a mountain. I see a rabbit. I see a crescent moon.
I see a banner. I see an eye. I see you are you.

We repeat. The horses. The horses are on fire.
Keep taking steps.