I was five,
lying facedown on my bed
when someone stabbed me in the back, 
all the way through to my heart. 
I screamed & my parents came running,
my father carrying me into the living room.
We sat in the chair with the high sides 
like wings. I kneeled on his lap, 
my arms around his neck. 
My mother sat across from us,
saying, honey, it was just a bad dream.
I looked over my father’s shoulder
at the dark ocean of air,
at the colorful, iridescent fish.
I tried to explain what I saw. 
It’s your imagination, said my father.
The fish swam like brilliant magicians 
toward the window. Then they were gone.
My parents didn’t know death like I did. 
Or the fish, their strange beauty
my secret.

^{—after “Horse” (1980) by Deborah Butterfield}

It looks as if it has only now  
risen from the stall bed, straw

clinging to its body the color of mud, 
but we know from the artist 

it is made of rag paper pulp  
cracking, fibers like small hairs,

ribbons of bamboo leaves, steel  
and chicken wire to look like 

an animal bending down to drink   
perhaps from a bucket of water.

A hoof implies the presence of  
the whole horse. A saddle implies 

a horse and a rider. Where are you  
taking me? In the barn, they crane 

their necks to see who’s coming.  
I feel the weight, the gesture in 

my own body. You become  
the horse: Bonfire. White Crane

A horse is a prayer. 
The meaning changes every day.

It is a cube, it is red, it is mountainous,
it is a bird of fire, it is the bones of the pelvis, it is a walnut,
it is treasured. It is yellow Saturn wobbling in its orbit.
It is danger, squawking.

It is the desire to sit down with strangers in cafes
and then it is the strangers in cafés,
it is the man with the black T-shirt
labeled UNARMED CIVILIAN and it is the blind man with              him

and his painful trembling.
Always it is oxygen and more oxygen. It is the fight in you
and the fight in you dying. It is the need for water
and the water that falls from the sky.

It is desperate for a theory and it is the acts you call evil
when you know there is no evil only desperation.
It is that bravery, that arrogance, that blindness.
It is the pink morning and your smile in the pink morning.

It is a phantom and the thin neck of a tree it
is a little project called loving the world.
It is howling in the dirt it is an extravaganza.
It’s the abandoned sports bra, in the dirt beside howling you.

It’s the windchimes in the thin-necked tree and
it is tonguetied. It is asleep.
It is waking up now. It is a small cat on the bed.
It is the threads of a leaf and it is the Three Graces:

Splendor, Mirth and Good Cheer.
It is their heartfelt advice:
You can’t let it hurt you.
You must let it hurt you.

It is a careless error and the hotel pool blue with chemistry.
It’s a kiss of course it is a kiss.
It’s an old strange book newly acquired
but not yet catalogued, it is crazy.

It is you, crazy with honesty and crazy with ambition.
It’s the sun that stuns over and over again.
It’s your tablet, which is every tablet everywhere.
It’s an explosion it is every explosion everywhere.

It is pavement, mineral and hot and wet with droplets.
It’s the stars that pitch white needles into the pond.
It is provable, it is a lotion, it is a lie.
It is a baby because everyone is a baby.

It talks to you, always to you, it moves
swiftly, it is stuck, it moves swiftly, it is stuck, it moves
swiftly. It’s the impenetrable truth, now clear as ice.
It is serious, it is irreversible, it is going, going.

It is flying now laughing strong enough to know anything.