#smallpoems
Torchlight
  saddles
    strike flint
sauntering skyward
 golden
ore, veins of light
on painted shores
keeping time at cliff's edge
Weightless girth
  Clinched to
unfettered
    minds
Brow bent
 over pommel
as parallel pasts
  stride in
  shards of
aspects glaring
down on cognizance of
   spinning consciousness
in a dominance
of stirrups
boot worn by  the search. A
   Need
For the Zen
of Provenance