Kenneth Rosen
Parnassus
Perhaps it is hateful to dwell on that
Deadly latitude, where the line of the horizon
Is attainable, not galloping, a horse
Browsing on sunset and other indefinite
Russet Sargassos, as if no horse, no rider,
Ever drowned in the unreal from crime,
Suicide, or simple exigency: the red ocean
Truly a huge blue tongue, its bottom wet
And mute, its surface glacial, utterly blind,
Or purple and disturbed. In either case,
The horse must go overboard, eyes white
And wide. Must swallow, fly—it's almost hilarious—
Pray for the right words, mental waters lashing,
Collapsing, to arrive on the noble mountain.
* * * * * * *
(Crossing the Sargasso Sea, becalmed ships threw horses and other
live cargo
overboard in a section of the passage known as 'the horse latitudes.')
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