Hurtling along goes Fontegaia-sled.

26  (A Fable)

 
Roughly 4000 horsepower-years ago
Abraham fashioned a delicate sled (more
delicate than words) for his dear young
Czar.  As the Lord commanded, thus

 
he performed.  They slipped through snow
so smooth and slow - past Isaac's
Cathedral, the Bronze Horseman (relax,
son!)... the little fellow knew, and didn't know.

 
It was like those games of knucklebones
the orphans play along the riverbank -
suspense lay in the suspended shank,
the spot of blood (the day's cartoons)...

 
Or like a dozing nation in a car
on the long ride home, bored
with the billboards' borrowed
flowers.  Floored it (too far).

 
Far, far into the prodigal forest
fled the knife-like stream of silver
nail-filings.  The cleft delver,
the Gold Glider, the last

 
train to St. Paul (1935 or so) -
fanned out across the iron prairie
where you lost yourself, Hobo - we
lost you.  Now, time flowers (slow,

 
slow).  And we'll go with you, Little King;
your anonymous loneliness, your meadow's
remorsefulness, your sorrowful shadow,
your lowness, Highness.  You times everything.