that they face the wheels with a word,
a shake in the hip and little fires in the belly
this is another turn of the wheel
bright eyes, bright smile, a slant in the middle of a speech
women who write backwards, to mirror an image
the image is a mirror too, do not mess with the speech
but the wheel of movement marches on
twenty stomping feet and a fleet of hair in the wind
the spirit of a horse is free, born and bread wilderness
you cannot contain a horse in a mason jar
let alone a woman in a flame-like metaphor
a little and it will end,
this insane turning like a hurricane that doesn't want to stop
or the tremor of a heart that beat on the wrong side
too long.
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