The Language of Silence
Among the wild strawberries in the clearcut
next to a shallow stream
I am left to speak with horses
They carry Plato’s furniture on their backs
In the drawers of the commodes
carefully folded in silk
are their memories
The horses know about balance
Memory is my country
With each passing year it has weighed on me more heavily
and now I speak with horses
it has taken me forty years to come to this
Red ants scurry over the horses’ flanks
as we talk
There is a stillness to the air
It is as if a school of trout
muscular and cold
cat-like
are slipping through trunks
and over my hands
Harold Rhenisch
The Blue Mouth of Morning
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