A white horse juts its jaw, as it receives

freedom's lash.

Whose distance is already satisfied.

G-force grins bear its large teeth at the

diplomacy of elements.

Below the frigid shade of bridges built

over deserts, eight kicks pace to the

torsoed toss of sand.

No more than a whole in want, spooked

by unbroken thunder shaplier than its

pounding hooves.

Its stomach distends with a flood of gas,

glugging to combustibility.

As it catches fire's metaphor, igniting

catch-me-if-you-can fingers all over it.

While night repudiates night, to where

passage is way behind, or way ahead  of

brilliances inconsistently ticking above.

In sound there is time, in time there is

distance--here there is no telling.

Just a white horse eating a purple carrot

out of a poet's hand.