The city is yet small before Poseidon.
He is in the brown February, with
Las Vegas thick and wet from the downpours.
Under Hekate’s low ceiling
The land has gone brown from the rain;
Not just the matted turf of weed and long grasses,
But the tree-stump posts, too, are soaked to umber.
Flat black puddles in the mudfield
Are a glass to the drifting clouds above.
Something of this brown yet clings in the grouting
Of the broad grey bricks that make the wall.
This earth must be damp a good forty feet down.
Over the wall, the horses, sienna,
Bold as knight-pieces along the angle of the grey wall,
They bring flashes of red inside the brown.
And so too there is the one red row of bricks,
Slim along the inside angle of the grey wall,
And the power of the horses is the power of forty foot deep of earth
Reared up on hooves.