Galloping

GALLOPING

when I ride give
me not a saddle
but the force of
blood-filled muscles
moving against 
my thighs and salt-
wet hair rubbing
moist threads from jeans
let me not ride to
save myself from
walking but to
fill with wind and
thunder as we
gallop pressed so
close hooves and
breath our mine

Thank you to the editor of Something Like Homesickness for first publishing this poem.