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Poseidon
The city is yet small before
Poseidon.
He is in the brown February,
with
Las Vegas thick and wet from the
downpours.
Under Hekate's low ceiling
The land has gone brown from the
rain;
Not just the matted turf of weed and long
grasses,
But the tree-stump posts, too, are soaked
to umber.
Flat black puddles in the
mudfield
Are a glass to the drifting clouds
above.
Something of this brown yet clings in the
grouting
Of the broad grey bricks that make the
wall.
This earth must be damp a good forty feet
down.
Over the wall, the horses,
sienna,
Bold as knight-pieces along the angle of
the grey wall,
They bring flashes of red inside the
brown.
And so too there is the one red row of
bricks,
Slim along the inside angle of the grey
wall,
And the power of the horses is the power
of forty foot deep of earth
Reared up on hooves.
.
Yours, Poseidon. Todd Jackson
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