The Huntsman’s Quarry

Wounded centaur, how your gestures
are a language of hands only
my heart comprehends. Now that I
have lost my way, now that no man

is around to hear a sound or
slow us down, can I count on your
gentleness to overpower
the pounding of my own? I ran

hard a marathon of fevers
’round the circuit of burning walls
a lurid city whose waters
its cries of lust turned to tar my

toes traversed until scorched with scars.
Though torn from warring against sighs,

do not deny me, wise creature,
reprieve from those who seek my life.
Through breath over rivers, beside
echoing temples, how your chant

resounded, dimpling flesh beneath
my whiskers with prayers to answer
as if this kiss were messenger
from a king who could whisper and

cure those whimpers. Come now, closer
into the fold of my shadow
your warmth scatters with such power
the innocence of flowers hides

no longer its blush as pastures
pass over their colour for sight,

even for an instant, of yours
which causes, in its changing from
alabaster to olive, wide
shoulders dusk covers with a tan.

Still to standing proud that tremble
which will serve neither of us more
than modesty when we end all
this dancing around what demands

our attention now that we lure
what we have already found. In
want of being wanted, endure
no more seeking how to survive

another winter alone, for
ere its chill bites I have arrived.