The Master is Always Near
this pool of botflies
would they eat
submerged in the skin of this dying
creature, while afternoon slips
yet this horse buys time with
its beauty, its open eyes
a heart pounding through leather
fur, large movements inspiring attention
glass-white body of the Palomino
through which past grasses and trees
assume the foreground
his leg bent as a branch
mystery of sensation, inside the flesh more
of the flesh inside, no
mystery of god, who could prevent
what happens to anyone
a future I dreamed
wearing itself out finally
a sensation of nothing
in the skin of all creatures
in history, every I is a fly
I could feel that you knew how I felt


