WEBVTT

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Another horse poem, "The Gift."

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"When I offer the
pear, and he takes it

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with first, whiskered
lips, and then teeth,

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and soon it is no longer
fruit but goes into betweeness

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and vanishment,
turning to pastern,

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and tail, and good
wall of the hoof,

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and small tithing of gold for
the pasture, or fire roads.

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For always where there is
offering, there is return.

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When this happens,
and he is careful,

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even in greed, even in the
indignity of his foolish--

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no, it must be named
true, his entirely goofy

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adoration and long
tongued worship of pears.

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When he knows what is
pear, what is hand, when

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he looks in my face as he chews,
and the crush slobbers out,

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and foams bright as spent
happiness onto my foot,

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onto my sleeve, as I bend
then to lift him a wedge

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he has dropped.

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When the heron holds
steady in contemplation,

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not a few feet away, its
eyes once again closed

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like two stones that have
rested an hour in the sun,

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and gone back into
leaning, and dimness,

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a little heat kept
in them still.

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When the late cars sweep by
without pause, without seeing,

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yet store in the blue
shadowed beakers,

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their own mild exchanges of
hidden unworkable sweetness.

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Then the world is that
actress from a Sanskrit

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poem, whose greatness was
showing two feelings at once.

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The mercies are boundless.

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Every country is death's."

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