Fall 1989 • Vol. XI No. 4 Poetry |

Distance and Design

In those first moments of spring at Ed's place we spoke of moonlight—how last night on Highway 64 a moonlit horse shot out of its pasture and into the man driving home from a poker game, his private apocalypse arriving for the moment when two lives confront and leave as a single signal. Who could have imagined such horse-dazzle at life's end? You said it made you think of horseblinders, the pure tunnel-vision of a guy who once sat down next to you in a diner and proceeded to gobble your 2 a.m. meatball sandwich as if you did not exist.        Maybe the moon was loose that night too, tidying up the strange imbalances that later I drive home through—a yolky moon tips over the mountains, and I am imagining still that plunging horse when up ahead on the backroad come three jostling rumps. Peasant skirts shag the gravel until four hooves appear on each, and it's three goats prancing the potholed night. They do not scatter for my horn but dare the headlights with silvery

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Gravity

By Katherine Soniat

In those first moments of spring at Ed's place we spoke of moonlight—how last night on Highway 64 a moonlit horse shot out of its pasture and into the man […]

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