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Eye of the Horse

                           To the fence
Comes a mass—muscle.

         Evening falling red
         Unto purple fields,
         Of black trees, from blue roads.

Symbol of your own death,
Walk together in your parts :

  Veil of flies over
            Bloodless withers—
   Slave of kings and broken men.

  For some other’s sake,
   To make a new self of

The self. In orange burning out,
              A contrail, a comet.
    In the blue become black,

    A train glides on wheat.

How am I you, and you, me?
In the paddock of the moon,

    In his glowing house,

Your owner loads his rifle.

I gave you oats from my pocket,
You give me a door in the field.
Posted 02/05/13
Poem originally published in Boston Review.
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