You are pretty like a colt, shiny and long-limbed, and smelling of talc like the baby you are
Little thing, little foal, so barely born
Of ocean foam, eyes like coal, voice like a coda
Like something coming to an end, a clot of blood, moving toward a brain on long limbs.
A cold clam, smelling of sea and fear of rubbery depths
The bottom of a moat, futile protector, long-limbed child…
Across the barren wasteland, what cowled figure seeks you out?
When I went with it, I went with no pity.
I was scraping downward like skiing.
A fast swoop on wet snow, with none of the cold.
Only dark and hidden, I passed with it through the gate,
Through the gated path
The shaded path
The shadowed path.
And I walked or flew, with it ‘til the dent was done
In a raid I took from it its glimmer.
Now, dull as brass, as a newt’s back,
No longer will I ski downward with it
But only grate along, grate along like grated gravel
So much would I rather dart through hedges
So much would I rather have that glimmer for myself.
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