Here you are at the graveyard, at the bayou, at the dump,
singing what won’t let you go, reaching into your little bag
for a lighter or a cheese stick or a new set of endearments–
but the words will never be beautiful, my own one, and
they won’t be ugly, either. When my dad and I were young
we watched horse racing and rooted for the best names, then
you and I were young and you spun me on the beery floor and
I had nothing to say, or else I said she smites the water with her
sword and meant the smear, the fling, the heavy stolen blow.
I am noble and rational while you bend like a mountain juniper,
speaking our common language. And here are the sketches of
horses and here are the horse’s names: Cat Thief, Congaree,
Perfect Drift, and Pulpit. Greenwood and Nighttime Tomorrow.
As soon as you said tomorrow. As soon as the clock struck ten.
Here you are, my one of ones, here you are,
my thoroughbred–defeater, subduer, eager-sent and mad.
