Sparklehorse

Sparklehorse




I asked him if he remembered himself as a child,
if there was anything luminous left in his eyes,
if he could see any joy, and he could not.

So befuddled, we let our hands open,
not knowing what it was
to let him go.

Into the field of horses
we watched him wander
picking the one to him
most beautiful.

I saw him mount
and nudge her on.
Cantering, he ripped
the rags he'd worn for years

in sadness,
too dark for some
though lived for music,

and suddenly lighter,
he and the horse
as fog climbed higher.

The ponds of clouds
seared by the face
halved themselves
like wounds

and grace became a wonderful sky
for the boy, the horse
still as if light
unrecognized.







for Mark Linkous of
Sparklehorse