Night Clerk at the Hotel of Both Worlds

Fence

36 Fence Late in the day, the wire loses Its decisiveness, the posts fade To charcoal strokes On top of snow. Inside the barn, Hanging bulbs, the delicate beads Of their chains, yellowish scrolls Of flypaper, the warmth Of horseflesh, manure and piss Rich and acrid, bridles and saddles Dangling from their nails—a tang Of neat’s-foot oil, salt, and mossy tobacco. I mucked the stalls. Now and then I got by with pushing the stained straw To the back and covering it With clean. My sister caught me, asked, “How would you like To lie down on dirty straw?” Now I resemble A horse put to grass, Eating myself polite inch By polite inch Across the indestructible pasture. ...