the field is barren but for the bloom
of this horse
and its iridescent pubes
fluttering
like shirts pinned to a clothesline
elsewhere the
horse is a comma in the middle
of its own pause, or
say a leaf in the ripple of its fall—
is it not mightier
than a crashing satellite, this leaf
falling of its own volition?
summa iru happened when the poet came across Rilke’s Book of Hours. The rest, as they say, is a dog whistle.