Emaciated Horses

It comes to me and it comes again … like leaves circling in the wind, higher and higher away from the mud and blood upon my hands

A blank face, a lost bet, and let us consider the dead, let them awaken upon the river rocks, let them lift you upward

Look where the green blade sprouts through the eye socket and how there is advantage to everything if one can read the invisible signs

Take my hand little one and let us traverse in reverse to where you have come from, let us cut our bodies and go two by two into the genes of your blood, sit astride the lightning of who you are

Let me show you how it comes to me and then comes again and you can do it too

It comes to me in the blindness of shadows when the sun goes down and in the space where the body hangs and drowns, it is in the warm pair of gloves as we stagger through the last open pass and down to our snowy town, and always there are the hurtful words that can drive us insane, and all of this is starkly painful in our spirit, like horses emaciated in the wild and everything has a name unto itself … the boy you never saw again, the body of your friend lost in the tide

Yet, if you try, you can read as I do and understand

You need only tilt your head and let the wonder become your eyes and there it will be, everything great and small, the warm sad beauty that gives us life, that covers us with this terrible love we can not name or forget

 

 

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