Franz Marc’s horses
were clay figures in my palms.
My hands were so full of curves,
so full of lonesome blue—
Closed in their mouths
was the knowledge of licking
clean their foal. Think of god,
the tongue and what it can do
out of love, of velvet
once it’s between your fingers.
Their ears, tilted, listening,
of midnight, their manes.
And so it became a prayer.
My holding. My thinking.