I saw
the early morning mist
make
silver passes, shift
densities
of opal
within
sleep’s portico.
On the
frontier, a dead horse.
Crystal
grains were rolling down
his
lustrous flank, and the breeze
twisted
his mane in a littlest,
lightest
arabesque, sorry adornment
—and his
tail stirred, the dead horse.
Still
the stars were shining
and
that day’s flowers, sad to say,
had not
yet come to light
—but
his body was a plot,
gardens
of lilies, the dead horse.
Many a
traveler took note
of
fluid music, the dewfall
of big
emerald flies
arriving
in a noisy gush.
He was
listening sorely, the dead horse.
And
some live horses could be seen
slender
and tall as ships,
galloping
through the keen air
in
profile, joyously dreaming.
White
and green the dead horse
in the
enormous field without recourse
—slowly
the world between
his
eyelashes revolved, all blurred
as in
red mirror moons.
Sun
shone on the teeth of the dead horse.
But
everybody was in a frantic rush
and
could not feel how earth
kept
searching league upon league
for the
nimble, the immense, the ethereal breath
which
had escaped that skeleton.
O heavy
breast of the dead horse!
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