Some say beauty
may be the egret
in the field
who follows after
the cows
sensing slaughter—
but I believe
the soul is neither
air nor water, not
this winged thing
nor the cattle
who moan
to make themselves
known.
Instead, the horses
standing almost fifteen
hands high—
like regret they come
most the time
when called.
Hungry, the greys eat
from your palm,
tender-toothed—
their surprising
plum-dark tongues
flashing quick
& rough as a match—
your hand, your
arm, startled
into flame.
Comments
That was lovely.
Simply beautiful. The minimalism strips away anything that could detract from the poem beauty… and somberness.
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