Franz Marc's Grazing Horses IVThree red horses
dance hugely
on their own wall.
Their coats quiver.
One looks up from the cobalt stream
as if startled by an indifferent visitor drifting by,
but I am in front of them,
frozen,
staring through ripples of red energy
emanating from them
with a force that quakes my thighs.
My feet have become blocks,
my arms stiffened at my sides so
my fingers can’t wipe my eyes.
At 18, I am innocent against such power.