I feel the black horse that grazed late October
galloping, galloping out, galvanized
from a splinter off my spinal cord,
hooves tearing divots through the glommy puddles of my heart,
its black rider reckless, thrust forward
through the shutters of my exhalations.
He will ride, and he will ride
near soundlessly, like an idea, or an echo
through each un-day of November,
finally to break the grey veil with a hooved flourish,
pulling back, pulling back on the black reins,
to the spilling out of the white vat of winter.
Erin Wilson’s poems have recently appeared in Watershed Review, Peacock Journal, MockingHeart Review, and Rust + Moth. She lives in a small town in northern Ontario.