Racehorse

I can tell by the roughness of your hands
that you are run by intricate mechanisms
An unending engine; moving, working.

But I can tell by the scars on your fists
that sometimes you are too alive.
Sometimes, when night falls, it falls
all around you; I know what it is
that you wish for in the dark

I know what it is like to feel one's blood
run through not deeply but roughly
and eat away an endless heart.

But I am not you, so sturdy for the plow
I am not built to tame my love like a beast
My heart was born lean and slim for racing.

If the field is not sowed, if the race is not won
we shall stare through the holes in our roofs
at the evening moon in our dark stables

We will have a revelation like a burst of gossamer,
with our limbs tucked beneath our chests.
We love greater than ourselves, thank God.
We will love ourselves to death.