What if it is true now
I do not want to speak of that
Which has been given me to say?
See, each four-legged rests his face against
The fence’s slats and asks
No questions: why or how. How long.
How dare you come home from your factory
Of autumns, your slaughterhouse, weathered
And incurious, with your hair bound
Loosely, not making use
Of every single part of the horse
His mane. His heart his gait his cello tail
His joy in finding apples fallen
As he built his coat for winter every year.