It came to me of its own, without
Understanding, me its only obstruction,
Composition better without a poet, best
To have left alone as it quivered, gelatinous,
A foal on the floor, ready to lick and nurse,
But only if it could get up, immediately,
On its own four feet, kick up its cloven heels
And dance about like a marionette. Good.
A body needs a poem that can go of its own
Without the niggling revisions and perfection
Of an author determined to be understood
Or to be misunderstood or to be an author.
A girl who ferried to school with daughter
Loved horses so inordinately that she spoke
Of their natural history, their habits, and
Her own collection of miniature horse dolls
Complete with riders as if everything were
Equally real, bless her soul. Everything is not
Remotely real, and in that sense all's equal.
The idea that there is a real at all is our
Fondest species-specific delusion. Wait.
Didn't this poppet of yours specify heels
That were cloven, not whole? Well, yes,
Imagine the little mutant, goat-footed equid
Struggling to its feet and dancing like any
Foal, kicking and nuzzling the teat gleefully.
Every composition is, and is equally unreal.
Pegasus was not only strange for his wings.
There was always further weirdness under
The unnecessary legs of that flying machine.
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