My Sad Horse

When he bent his nose
to my cupped hand,
I reached to stroke his
beautiful head, right
between the eyes.

There, the hair grew
short and flat; the bone
lived just below it.
I felt I was touching
the lid of his mind.

He looked at me then.
He knew what I was
doing, that I didn’t
want to stop. Say we
both knew. There was
still the fence, the gate,
hay and barn, water
in the trough,
glimmering.