Dew

Drunk on the wine of experiences
too many to count and far too sad to talk
about with you, drunk---though not senseless,
I made errors that cannot be rethought, my pony.
And, while there is a newer emphasis
that takes experiences, dubious
experiences, and tries to revisit
them with a standard light, I am curious
how rubbing particularities across
each other like grass and ugly insect legs
could change those evenings when, lost and not lost,

I stumbled, I slept, I was covered with dew.
Then, lying on the grass with a liquid ear,
I’d hear tiny prehistoric horses
gallop limply through conduits under
my yard, running from and to me who’d pour
myself out and be refilled many times
prior to rising and shaking myself dry
and mounting you, my pony, to begin
only from habit another long day's ride.