by John Sibley Williams
A blind horse stands amid ash
inches from a long fall to sea.
Mostly bone, pared down to necessity,
muzzling black rock for a taste
of the grass nearby, where all day, sated,
I have watched him.
Night again is taking me like a song.
Like God, says the farmer
who is also a priest
who sleeps in the barn
during my stay.
Alive at the center of bundled hay,
the farmer and his bliss.
I cannot quite taste the mountain
behind the mountain.
And so alive in the hesitant harvest,
an unsteady cliff and its drownings.
Alive in the silent machines left rusted
and the steeple newly painted
and the horse cut from the horizon,
silhouetted in light.
Last updated September 08, 2011