A poem written in response to Izumi Yokoyama’s “Wild Horse,” for an upcoming ekphrasis event.
The cosmos has no time
for serious thought.
amorphic in a milkbath of dark matter.
A noun fashioned
from the symmetry of wind.
They shoot wild horses, don’t they?
Hungry ghosts cannot be broken,
only fed light
from unknown sources.
Close your eyes. There is no horse.
Only a horse-shaped teardrop
running infinite lengths
to touch grief, its course
the majestic blood-let of dying stars.
If you stare into the horse’s moon-seed eye
eventually the horse’s eye closes.
This is not rocket science.
Eternity, a rocking horse,
hinged on the fasting threads
of music unending.
Am I a horse dreaming myself the cosmos,
or the cosmos dreaming through the equine bones
of a wild snorting god, patient and noble?