Jane
Zwart

                    Legs beneath barrel, the bloodstock floats

                    in some frames, not one hoof to earth:

                    I think often of Muybridge’s pictures.

                    Not one hoof to earth.

                                                             But a broken centaur,

                    no GIF, no gallop, less than a hand high, six legs

                    short a horse and rider, is really a bronze

                    lolly on a steel swizzle stick, less Pegasus

                    than peg-leg. Did I think he floated?

                    Back limbs snapped at the gaskins, front

                    at the chestnut, he rides a pole; he clears

                    this shelf like cobs clear carousels’ turntable

                    floors. No object card says who broke

                    this chiron. But next to his legs, metal

                    in a soapdish: cast of runt pencil, cast of bent

                    straw, cast of Luckies smoked to the quick.