Jane
Zwart

                        Legs beneath barrel, the bloodstock floats

                        in some frames, not one hoof to earth:

                        I think often of Muybridge’s pictures.

                        Not one hoof to earth.

                                                                 But a broken centaur,

                        no GIF, no gallop, less than a hand high, six legs

                        short a horse and rider, is really a bronze

                        lolly on a steel swizzle stick, less Pegasus

                        than peg-leg. Did I think he floated?

                        Back limbs snapped at the gaskins, front

                        at the chestnut, he rides a pole; he clears

                        this shelf like cobs clear carousels’ turntable

                        floors. No object card says who broke

                        this chiron. But next to his legs, metal

                        in a soapdish: cast of runt pencil, cast of bent

                        straw, cast of Luckies smoked to the quick.