Emerging from a cave the half and half creature
turns a huge black head to us, shocks with fierce
eyes. White horns curve from an armored brow.
The minotaur’s muscular arms and hands,
pale as mine, hold a horse almost as big as he.
With this embrace, the two could be a third
creature made of Picasso’s equine obsession,
all limbs, mane and hooves. The chalk white horse
has a ruined mouth below pleading eyes. Our
minotaur rescues the horse, carrying the broken
animal across a blue inlet to the maiden who lifts
a veil in welcome, revealing her beauty. Is she one
of the muses with her laurel of wildflowers she may
give the horse? That horse whose eyes make us weep.