You, standing with your Roman blade thrust into the blue sky,
And your horse rearing up in its hind legs.
And You, your eyes
Gazing at the cars in the street,
Or else I don't know exactly what,
As four hundred years of wind and rain and reverent hands reaching to touch the hem of your riding cape,
Wear your spirit away.
And as he Verdigris
Pales your eyes into filmy green
Blinding your vigilance,
Like vermilion rust on alert, once-proud, whitewashed,
Fences.
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