Last Night

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Franz Marc's horseswere clay figures in my palms.My hands were so full of curves,so full of lonesome blue—

Closed in their mouthswas the knowledge of lickingclean their foal. Think of god,the tongue and what it can doout of love, of velvetonce it's between your fingers.Their ears, tilted, listening,of midnight, their manes.

And so it became a prayer.My holding. My thinking.

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If I speak of the fire at the centerof my palms, would you let metouch you with them? My hands?

In the dream, my hands rained,they cried from touchingcreation, from feeling the heatwhere your heart is.

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Knowing I had it in me to teartheir clay, to undo their breath,the cloud of their bodies,

I bent their neckstoward their bellies, until, comingto life, they smelled their own want.