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
Instead, the horses

standing almost fifteen
            hands high—
like regret they come

most the time
            when called.
Hungry, the greys eat

from your palm,
their surprising

plum-dark tongues
            flashing quick
& rough as a match—

your hand, your
            arm, startled
into flame.


  1. Simply beautiful. The minimalism strips away anything that could detract from the poem beauty… and somberness.

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