His leg is arched about a sphere
Of air which leaps evenly between
His gallopings. He moves like a worn
Centaur in the grove behind a temple.
The bright sphere lifts against his loins
And he soars. But he is too much child
Of the ground and, pah! he returns
In a harsh arc, a centaur rampant
Too long, by the gates of a temple.
The sphere is a virgin of air
Against his loins, and the keen
Of her kiss sends him rearing. Torn
Between head and hooves, between temple
And the sweat of seed, he careens
On his wry limb in a wild
Reel, grace of the muskiest wines.
Bereft of virgin, then, and cursed by balance,
Crashes among the trees that hide the temple.
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