from the road
the horse breathing in
the solitude of empty space,
breathing out through men’s initials,
the world branded on ragged sides.
I stop before the black horse
that has been owned and owned again.
Our bodies speak
across illegal borders
of woman and horse
while trains filled with diplomats
rush forward on metal tracks
that will never touch.
There is another language in the dark.
My hands touch the black alphabet of the horse.
The potatoes are alive in the cellar
and covered with eyes.
The dark chickens from South America
huddle near a warm bulb,
the heart of light
emerging from dwelling places
our animal bodies divine.