You would hold hard
The wild horse neck,
Still the swirling down
The long animal throat
In muscular spiral—
But no way will the mare
Quiet her hoof
On the grass and rock
Turning beneath the element
Of her leg. Better
To wrap her mane
In your fingers’ web,
Become breath and cloud,
Water and earth where
Your body meets the velvet hide—
Become a field of poppies,
The running over granite
And leap over rushing creek—
Become the vertigo sky
Streaming through your own hair—
Be horse.
Rusty Truck 