An orchestrated, ill-fated race at Saratoga, New York.
|The shadow of a conductor’s baton
falls across the carefully orchestrated
concerto of Saratoga stallions...
falls over racecourse soil
soft as moss sonata,
falls upon the rhythm of a
valiantly galloped arpeggio,
falls with the
to reach a winning pitch,
at the top of the stretch,
tangling into sudden stumble,
on antique equine instrument.
The tempo is
A grandstand chorale quits the Ode to Joy,
transposing, minor, into Requiem
as if directed by sudden, distant sirens.
onto gentle stranger’s
swinging stretchers, horse and rider
harmonize - an effortless, metronomed
coda won equally by each
in fated photo finish.