This Morning, a White Mare

R.T. Castleberry

Let the picture lay,
sordid, gorgeous:
A summer chain of iron rain
crushing Four Crows Lake,
raw lather of white water
driving a mist
mad as the beauty of tongue and knife.
This morning, a white mare
lay dying on the flooded road.

Let the picture lay,
sordid, gorgeous:
The April arc of mortar fall
crushing desert hills,
swirling spires of dust
driving a haze
savage as the gift of flame and skin.
This morning, a white mare
lay dying on Yellow Road.

Let the picture lay,
sordid, gorgeous:
A morning squall of marsh rain
crushing coconut palm and hibiscus,
piercing lyric of cicadas
driving a line
bitter as the etch of acid and bone.
This morning, a white mare
lay dying on the jungle road.

Let the picture lay,
sordid, gorgeous:
The nightly smear of tracer shells
crushing city towers,
laser veils of thermite and circuitry
driving a storm
scarred as the celebration of reflex and error.
This morning, a white mare
lay dying on the market road.