“The horse is awkward
as it tries to tear itself from the gripping
mud. Spit slung the air, and grace
turned to the ease of slipping.”

The poet relayed this
tale, told me it represented
humanity. He also said
that the artist pierces
the dirt of reality, receives
music from the noise
and chips the impenetrable
block to grab its beauty.
And so the poet tried to pull
the horse from its mud:

“I watch its fading
to the muck—there is the eye that defines
it. Hours fall, I finally head to my room
and try to pull the horse. But the horse’s eye
is only silence. I see it—but no words, except
for the mud and the greatness of its hand.”