You are a seahorse unraveling.
You are the back of a landhorse looking backward.
Gotten away form have you thrown yourself racing.
Who took what was not out of thunderous shade
In an all-knowing sycamore's branches.
What who do you make of stone steps you stepped through.
You took the boat onto flattened waters.
White wall of blue morning fog to slip into.
You withstood what is was that was wailing you through.
There you were standing on nothing, looking down at two
Blackfeathered slashes your two hands held on to.
Off were you going aloft would birds such as these take
Who leaned you and stood you and shook you and shook you.