You left to be with the horses,
high-necked but bruised as midnight.
I counted every muscle on you, at least
when dreaming. In youth you were mistaken
for a mule, body lurching away
from excellence. You could have been
the herd’s head, the strongest bite
to bare the fields. I wanted more
for you. Come shape my stupidity again
as if there were feed enough
to keep you. Be like the moon,
serving her peasants the palest gold.