Horses in the wind, floating, a starscape, your heart.
Your heart is such a funny thing, a flower, a stringbean,
a muscle, a nuance, a grave, an automat, an opening--
where instances fall and are trampled like oranges, apples,
tangerines, too many fruits fallen too far from the tree, sweetening
soil that cannot speak, cannot let us know, and cannot see
what wonderful things it grows, makes known, like fallen leaves,
beds and shade for animals, plants and nuts and berries and me,
a little light somehow fallen from the tippity-toppity of it all,
brought down to size, ornery, cantankerous, but lovely, lovely and small.