Within ten miles,
The thirst-crazed grass
Roiled with hoppers,
Which ricocheted
Against my glossy tracks.
Those trainers — black —
Adhered to lines,
Packed dirt on leathered flats.
The sun was lecherous
And high:
Scouring bogs,
Souring marshes,
Polishing salt to pinprick spackle.
O, the tortured snows of August.
O, the madness of my march.
