Sitting one time in a aesthetics class in Greensboro,
I'm very, very powerfully bored.
I started writing what turned out
to be a poem sort of without-- very absentmindedly.
And it was this one.
This poem is called "City Dreaming of Horses."
And what I was dreaming of, of course, was Troy.
And thinking at that time we were talking about,
it was the beauty in the object or is
the beauty in the eye of the beholder and all that
which are interesting.
I mean, I don't mean to scoff at them entirely.
They're fun to talk about.
But it was also seemed to me like it was spring day
and it was beautiful outside and the birds were carrying on.
And I didn't care whether those bird notes were in my ears
or in the bird's mouth.
It was just really nice to enjoy them.
"Each dawn, we watch the bus descend through lifting mist.
Come shining down in emerging hills decline to the sea.
We mount its trembling steps, feed the chattering meter
quarters, sit, begin to sleep.
But first, sway round our brightly curved tidal bay,
begin the lifting road up through the hillside pastures,
passing every day the dew drenched buckskin mayor who
comes to lean against the leaning fence and stare.
As from our serial windows, we stare back
before we enter the city, dreaming of horses."