In the gullet of the field the grass is a color that reminds us of dying or is it we the dying color? Must be.
I call my home beautiful even as the children pass by & feel pity on me. The moon is a blind bird we all must make peace with. Sometimes I am brave, I let go of all that wants to kill me.
I go go on now,
all that wants to kill me
& raise my face to the sky,
I make many suns on the ground.
Our legs are made of instinct.
I know the whole of war. I step lighter with blood in the soil. I watch for death like a snake. I don’t believe the one who rides me knows that we will someday both be covered in the grass I eat. They forget their bodies & marvel at my own.