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  • Michael Barnes

A Rocking Horse

A rocking horse

lightly sawdusted

stained red

and smelling of cedar,

I study the edge of a line

and determine the next cut

by considering the patterns

and shapes which make up

the work so far,

and by listening

to the resonation

of wood and sap,

a density which

reverberates a throaty bellow,

once sang into.

The wooden horse

generally rocks,

but teeters with a wobble,

and my poem,

undone,

exhales,

only simulating a breath,

and both would be rendered useless

if not for the way they remind me

of my potential

and how “good enough”

will have to do

for now.