A poem is an individual
in opposition to its time.
Look at it its way, flying
you into more, for all times.
The abstract individual had
better be brief about something.
Peggy, this ten-year-old dapple gray
down here in the south pasture
is more than quadruped or even horse.
Peg's her own person, hey:
valid, shapely, and unpredictable.
I sought her out almost everywhere,
and she just now eased up behind me,
nuzzled between my shoulder blades
and lifted me off the earth.