Tugging the Arrow Out
There’s a nudging that a living horse
will sometimes extend towards a dead one,
a nudging not so much against death – what is
knowable to a horse, but not understandable –
but against that space right before loneliness
settles in for real that horses
do, it seems, understand.
And so that was the first day.
The night was what night always is:
a black starfish, black according to some
for holiness, to others for the limbs themselves,
unfurling as if from long sleep or a late stiffness,
or as when a quiet thing, and very still, starts moving,
moves, one stiff black limb
at a time.