The swelling crowd fills the Campo-conch
like the roar of the sea - contrada banners
swoop and flutter, sailing - glory to Siena!
Horses, horsemen jostle in the cinch
of the lead-rope - twilight inches forward
from the bell-tower - the tenth horse
starts his run... the race is on (hoarse
cries of rival jockeys, lashes of calf-pud).
Peacock rivalry, testosterone.
O vain people! Chasing a bloody rag
around the haybales (for a brag).
This is about the poets (non-Verona).
You hold the key to the highway, cowboy
(sucking your pacifier). It's cold
in the mountains (iron manifold) -
where snow locks up the almond eye
in a hexagon of exempla - where the race
wheels around a cast-off labyrinth
and the frothing beast (ninth
horse of the Apocalypse) reflects your face.
I'm on jury duty this week, so blogging will be minimal. Here's another scribble for Fontegaia chapt. 2 :