Centaurs gallop in the dew-wet night,
in our deepest knowledge, in our forgetfulness:
their hooves never pity the trampled grass,
but their hands will remember all they touch.

Now we wake on the other side of night
to another kind of knowledge, a new forgetfulness:
our clocks never pity the passing hours.

We leave an ancient myth,
put on our shoes,
touch things like doors, tools, spoons,
with fingers that remember taut, warm skin.

“Centaurs” is Janice D. Soderling’s translation of her poem “Kentaurer” published in Swedish in Medusa, volume 6, issue 1, 1985.