Horses Remember How

—some trotting and tripping frail guests,

others elegant.

All of them moved through twilight’s shell

with stones

and cedar needles in their manes. They know what I need

to live—to spend entire nights

edging toward my moorings. I know

exactly what is happening to you.

Finally, to want to carry the day

somewhere else. Where things dance on one leg,

where there is a Newfoundland dog

for every drowning child. I have been comparing things—

and don’t want to tell anyone.

For example, your birthday party on the scaffolding

where a child burned in the sun, and the pitch-dark garden

filled with cats and snails. And I know why

these things only happen to you. It’s because there’s no finishing.

Because you can’t be sad about the lost one, or too happy

about the new one. Later,

you will try to get away, but you won’t.

It’s tremendous.