I’ve known you for a year now

white freckled horse with your limpet mane.

 

For a year you have been standing there by the fence–

maybe an eternity by that fence,

self-cornered near the barbed filament

always facing the mountains.

 

Sometimes you shift, I’ve noted;

never subject to the wind.

 

Yes,

sometimes you shift

and I’d like to know

what moves you to amend your bearing?

To look up without raising those eyes?

 

Once, I saw you standing that constant way

cool and still in the loafing shed

just because it’s there;

your head still low,

but not for sadness.

 

And when I pass you on foot

it is the same

save that you lean into me

as if we shared a secret.

 

Do they know what they have

the proprietors I never see–

the ones who keep your ribs from jutting

and your field from turning grey?

 

Do they know that there are words in your unsettling composure;

whispers from a tranquility millions seek to match;

wisdom from watching the encoded purpose of colonies colonizing?

 

Tell me

quiet, unmoving horse:

 

are they the lives of absented people

scattered about your cerise skin?