A horse is named Sardine—she like

the crowded pen as a colt, the cloud

of dust like a parachute settling.

At that place they are all of a kind—

all alike or all different. Kindly

they remember her and what she likes—

a steady, scientific battery

of the back with good wishes, a long

thorough stroke of the neck, a brush

with bristles hard and soft in alternation.

Little girl, sleeping,

do not let your heart know real loneliness.

You would like the path of real ground,

you would like the cluttered heights

of the woody branches over it.

Your love for Horse is at the very quick

of the flower, the scent, the gathered,

interested commune at the door

of the stable where Sardine was born.

Sardine was a better birth

for the eagerness around her.

Concurrent, years before,

the clock on the shelf began to buzz

in the city, and you dressed for school.

Something had happened: a dream, a long

silent restlessness the night before,

but the day looked difficult enough

just at the edges of the windowshades.

The fact was

you had dressed for twenty years of school.

After that, like the bulb

in your lamp, you are likely

to suddenly fail.