Another History of Desire


Or say the body is a bucket.

And here, in this field, not far

from the river, a horse is running

in the tall grass. But what the grass

senses pressing against its body

is not what the horse feels

brushing against its legs and chest.

Evening exists as the dull substance

of the world. While the clouds,

swollen with dusk, hover like coals

that burn in our chests. Is this what

it means to be alive? We tried to describe

the light but without the light we couldn't

see what we described. And when

we climb from the river there is

the brackish smell we carry away

on our skin. It permeates the air.

And we sit on the bank and watch

the reeds undulating in the shallows.

Or maybe we carry a dripping

bucket out to the horse in the field.

The tongue slurps. The water splashes

over the brim. And when we stand

before the bucket and see the moon

miniaturized and captured

in its eye, we almost believe that

once we were assembled there.