Is there any proof that unicorns exist?

The girls in the tapestries are in trouble, even the ones

who slouch, two dimensional, on lawns

weaved of emerald thread. Light silks along grass

till it meets the hooves of a horse, black circles

of afterthought, pressed into pretend dirt. Later:

it’s all a dream. You wake and the horses are missing

something, robbed of their violence, their desire

to rough things up. The girls find other things

to hurt them, then wrap their pain in scarves, furoshiki-

style. The wind is a fold in the fabric, stitched

someone cut from the sky. Hold your thumb

here and I’ll tie a loose knot. I’ll listen.

You’ll say proof as if it matters,

but you make things up

all the time. I can remember

when all your best friends were imaginary.