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In my dream, a blue mare loping,
Pewter on a porcelain field, away.
There are bursts of soft commotion
Where her hooves drive in the drifts,
And as dusk ebbs on the plane of night,
She shears the web of winter,
And on the far, blind side
She is no more. I behold nothing,
Wherein the mare dissolves in memory,
Beyond the burden of being.
Used with the permission of the poet.
She got out at Raspail. I was left behind with
the immensity of existing things. A sponge,
suffering because it cannot saturate itself, a river
suffering because reflections of clouds and trees
are not clouds and trees.
My voice restore for me.
Navajo
Here is the wind bending the reeds westward,
The patchwork of morning on gray moraine:
A mirror will suffice, no doubt.
The high furrowed forehead,
The heavy-lidded Asian eyes,
The long-lobed Indian ears.
Brown skin beginning to spot,
Of an age to bore and be bored.
I turn away, knowing too well
My face, my expression
For all seasons, my half-smile.