HORSE LATITUDES
by Jim Morrison

When the still sea conspires an armor
And her sullen and aborted
Currents breed tiny monsters,
True sailing is dead.
Awkward instant
And the first animal is jettisoned,
Legs furiously pumping
Their stiff green gallop,
And head bob up
Poise
Delicate
Pause
Consent
In mute nostril agony
Carefully refined
And sealed over.