Like them I follow the current, arch
into the white curve of questions; regard
my unsleeved arms, trying to remember
what it is that feels like it is missing,
what’s necessary. And in the evenings,
as lights go on in houses by the river,
their bent heads outlined in sudden flame
are beacons on dark-blue water—
So go the myths of all great faithfulness.
But isn’t it true the rule exists where instinct
curbs most keenly toward what it fears?
Isn’t it true that the clasp of the metal ring
and the twitch of the bridle mean the heart
is fickle, that the animal could one day drift
off into the wood to die or disappear?


In response to Via Negativa: Nursery rhyme.

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