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Horse Latitudes

The Doors

When the still sea conspires an armor 
And her sullen and aborted 
Currents breed tiny monsters 
True sailing is dead 
Awkward instant 
And the first animal is jettisoned 
Legs furiously pumping 
Their stiff green gallop 
And heads bob up 
Poise 
Delicate 
Pause 
Consent 
In mute nostril agony 
Carefully refined 
And sealed over