Whinnied by flint,

in the dream-gait that cantered you across

the clover-swarmed

militant field:

this bit

of earth that inches up

to us again, shattered

by the shrill, fife-sharp tone

that jousts you open, million-fold,

in your utmost

heretic word.

Slowly,

you dip your finger into the wound

from which my voice

escapes.