Thank You Joy      	For The Horses

that ran me         	pulled me like the wetted wool fibers
	                        	in a homemade valentine

like the left horn of a      too-young bull      surprised      through the side of a white pony
		                                  	testing out the marshes for the thaw.

Thank you for the sharpness of hoofs and heat of runned animals in February
		                                   for their steam in a cold barn

		                                   and there is nothing in my life violent enough —

there is nothing in my life so violent enough —

except this,             	if I count this.
        

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