A COMPENDIUM OF HORSES

If I name light, like looking

(of course) the book is winged, the sun
is worn, not out but

in & the

case is open, we hope

for good.

We hope for good, we hope
for love, we hope for all

that is lovely in men.

We hope for mouths or months, we
hope for a quarter, we hope for the longest
of mornings, as is

our want
and will.

If I name light, like looking

these are horses, over

here, these are

all, after all

entrances

pulling us to prick, picking

up our pieces

for good, for the long run, we ready

the horse

for the

immoral proposition.

And if it were a drawing it would look like

we‘re thinking

of calling this an obscene poem, of calling

it shit

of horse, of

calling it a compendium

of horses, the architecture of which
bounds like light, like looking

burnt

the horse down, burnt
the horse down.

If I name light, like looking

It’s true, there are too

many complexities gone

solid, too

many complexities in

saying this, thin
attention is paid

to chasing the bird to
collecting the agent to

what track

we’re on

right or wrong, tomorrow

is a horse too

are you

a rider?

Of this idea we call?

This is the idea

we call. We call

it fate, we call our mothers, we

call this meeting

to order the total parts of the world.

And so if no

reason may still be found

the other is also

true, we knew it all

along. Give it
away. Give it
a name. Like is just as likely

to be wrong as it is
to look right.