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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=431920" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Elegy With A Bridle In Its Hand</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">One was a bay cowhorse from Piedra & the other was a washed out palomino<br>And both stood at the rail of the corral & both went on aging<br>In each effortless tail swish, the flies rising, then congregating again</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Around their eyes & muzzles & withers.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Their front teeth were by now as yellow as antique piano keys & slanted to the angle<br>Of shingles on the maze of sheds & barn around them; their puckered</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Chins were round & black as frostbitten oranges hanging unpicked from the limbs<br>Of trees all through winter like a comment of winter itself on everything<br>That led to it & found gradually the way out again.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In the slowness of time. Black time to white, & rind to blossom.<br>Deity is in the details & we are details among other details & we long to be</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Teased out of ourselves. And become all of them.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The bay had worms once & had acquired the habit of drinking orange soda<br>From an uptilted bottle & nibbling cookies from the flat of a hand, & like to do<br>Nothing else now, & the palomino liked to do nothing but gaze off</div><div style="margin:10px 0">At traffic going past on the road beyond vineyards & it would follow each car<br>With a slight turning of its neck, back & forth, as if it were a thing</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Of great interest to him.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">If I rode them, the palomino would stumble & wheeze when it broke<br>Into a trot & would relapse into a walk after a second or two & then stop<br>Completely & without cause; the bay would keep going though it creaked</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Underneath me like a rocking chair of dry, frail wood, & when I knew it could no longer<br>Continue but did so anyway, or when the palomino would stop & then take</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Only a step or two when I nudged it forward again, I would slip off either one of them,<br>Riding bareback, & walk them slowly back, letting them pause when they wanted to.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">At dawn in winter sometimes there would be a pane of black ice covering<br>The surface of the water trough & they would nudge it with their noses or muzzles,<br>And stare at it as if they were capable of wonder or bewilderment.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They were worthless. They were the motionless dusk & the motionless</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Moonlight, & in the moonlight they were other worlds. Worlds uninhabited<br>And without visitors. Worlds that would cock an ear a moment<br>When the migrant workers come back at night to the sheds they were housed in</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And turn a radio on, but only for a moment before going back to whatever</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Wordless & tuneless preoccupation involved them.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The palomino was called Misfit & the bay was named Querido Flacco,<br>And the names of some of the other shapes had been Rockabye<br>And Ojo Pendejo & Cue Ball & Back Door Peter & Frenchfry & Sandman</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And Rolling Ghost & Anastasia.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Death would come for both of them with its bridle of clear water in hand<br>And they would not look up from grazing on some patch of dry grass or even</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Acknowledge it much; & for a while I began to think that the world</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Rested on a limitless ossuary of horses where their bones & skulls stretched<br>And fused until only the skeleton of one enormous horse underlay<br>The smoke of cities & the cold branches of trees & the distant</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Whine of traffic on the interstate.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">If I & by implication therefore anyone looked at them long enough at dusk<br>Or in moonlight he would know the idea of heaven & of life everlasting<br>Was so much blown straw or momentary confetti</div><div style="margin:10px 0">At the unhappy wedding of a sister.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Heaven was neither the light nor was it the air, & if it took a physical form<br>It was splintered lumber no one could build anything with.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Heaven was a weight behind the eyes & one would have to stare right through it<br>Until he saw the air itself, just air, the clarity that took the shackles from his eyes<br>And the taste of the bit from his mouth & knocked the rider off his back</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So he could walk for once in his life.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Or just stand there for a moment before he became something else, some<br>Flyspeck on the wall of a passing & uninteruptible history whose sounds claimed<br>To be a cheering from bleachers but were actually no more than the noise</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Of cars entering the mouths of a tunnel.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And in the years that followed he would watch them in the backstretch or the far turn<br>At Santa Anita or Del Mar. Watch the way they made it all seem effortless,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Watch the way they were explosive & untiring.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And then watch the sun fail him again & slip from the world, & watch<br>The stands slowly empty. As if all moments came back to this one, inexplicably<br>To this one out of all he might have chosen-Heaven with ashes in its hair</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And filling what were once its eyes-this one with its torn tickets<br>Littering the aisles & the soft racket the wind made. This one. Which was his.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And if the voice of a broken king were to come in the dusk & whisper<br>To the world, that grandstand with its thousands of empty seats,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Who among the numberless you have become desires this moment</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Which comprehends nothing more than loss & fragility & the fleeing of flesh?<br>He would have to look up at the quickening dark & say: Me. I do. It's mine.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Larry+Levis">Larry Levis</a><div class=q>
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And both stood at the rail of the corral & both went on aging
In each effortless tail swish, the flies rising, then congregating again

Around their eyes & muzzles & withers...."></div>
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