The Horse

The Horse

outside my window

knows my name, he chuckles

it in base register,

his breath a mixture

of sweet oats

and bunch grass.

He knows me better than I

know myself,

knows I want to run this valley

beside him without

growing winded, knows

how I love the thump of

hoof

on muddy winter pasture,

knows my lips,

like his,

will purse and open and pop

together beyond the fence

beyond this field, feeling

their way,

my lips,

toward some kind of

bright green

I haven't yet chewed

into muscle,

into mane, into hoof.