Perhaps the ankle of a horse is holy.

Crossing the Mississippi at dusk, Clemens thought

Of a sequel in which Huck Finn, in old age, became

A hermit, & insane. And never wrote it.

And perhaps all that he left out is holy.

The river, anyway, became a sacrament when

He spoke of it, even though

The last ten chapters were a failure he devised

To please America, & make his lady

Happy: to buy her silk, furs, & jewels with

Hues no one in Hannibal had ever seen.

There, above the river, if

The pattern of the stars is a blueprint for a heaven

Left unfinished,

I also believe the ankle of a horse,

In the seventh furlong, is as delicate as the fine lace

Of faith, & therefore holy.

I think it was only Twain's cynicism, the smell of a river

Lingering in his nostrils forever, that kept

His humor alive to the end.

I don't know how he managed it.

I used to make love to a woman, who,

When I left, would kiss the door she held open for me,

As if instead of me, as if she already missed me.

I would stand there in the cold air, breathing it,

Amused by her charm, which was, like the scent of a river,

Provocative, the dusk & first lights along the shore.

Should I say my soul went mad for a year, &

Could not sleep? To whom should I say so?

She was gentle, & intended no harm.

If the ankle of a horse is holy, & if it fails

In the stretch & the horse goes down, &

The jockey in the bright shout of his silks

Is pitched headlong onto

The track, & maimed, & if, later, the horse is

Destroyed, & all that is holy

Is also destroyed: hundreds of bones & muscles that

Tried their best to be pure flight, a lyric

Made flesh, then

I would like to go home, please.

Even though I betrayed it, & left, even though

I might be, at such a time as I am permitted

To go back to my wife, my son—no one, or

No more than a stone in a pasture full

Of stones, full of the indifferent grasses,

(& Huck Finn insane by then & living alone)

It will be, it might be still,

A place where what can only remain holy grazes, &

Where men might, also, approach with soft halters,

And, having no alternative, lead that fast world

Home—though it is only to the closed dark of stalls,

And though the men walk ahead of the horses slightly

Afraid, & at all times in awe of their

Quickness, & how they have nothing to lose, especially

Now, when the first stars appear slowly enough

To be counted, & the breath of horses makes white signatures

On the air: Last Button, No Kidding, Brief Affair—

And the air is colder.

OKLAHOMA

Often, I used to say: I am this dust; or, I am this wind.

And young, I would accept that. The truth is, it was never the case.