The Truth, by Carl Phillips And now, the horse is entering the sea, and the sea holds it. Where are we? Behind us, the beach, yes, its scrim, yes, of grass, dune, sky—Desire goes by, and though it’s wind of course making the grass bend, unbend, we say it’s desire again, passing us by, souveniring us with gospel the grass, turned choir, leans into, Coming— Lord, soon. Because it still matters, to say something. Like: the heart isn’t really breakable, not in the way you mean, any more than a life shatters, —which is what dropped shells can do, or a bond sworn to, remember, once couldn’t, a wooden boat between unmanageable wave and rock or, as hard, the shore. The wooden boat is not the heart, the wave the flesh, the rock the soul— and if we thought so, we have merely been that long mistaken. Also, about the shore: it doesn’t mean all trespass is forgiven, if nightly the sand is cleared of any sign we were here. It doesn’t equal that whether we were here or not matters, doesn’t— Waves, because so little of the world, even when we say that it has shifted, has: same voices, ghosts, same hungers come, stop coming— Soon— How far the land can be found to be, and of a sudden, sometimes. Now— so far from rest, should rest be needed— Will it drown? The horse, I mean. And I—who do not ride, and do not swim And would that I had never climbed its back And love you too Share this:EmailPrintFacebookTwitterPinterestTumblrRedditPocketLike this:Like Loading...