I.

I was not a real horse and it was not
a real field—there were stumps all over
where they had sawed off the observation
towers after the war games were over
and it was time to review
the execution of abstract strategies
as they had galloped through actual space.
A dark red saddle also missing.   

The accusation hung heavy
in the aromatic morning—one had
to believe it would eventually drop.
 

II.

If you find yourself hungry
and step away to make toast

or whatever it is that sustains you
and return to discover I’ve gone,

don’t worry.  I will have left you
something else for your amusement:

like a bag of plastic fruit that children
buy and sell to each other.
 

III.

In July I could not stop thinking
of the gorgeous pale green box
with the interior divided
as though it were waiting patiently
for a complicated illness
and the accompanying chorus line
of pills, but I was healthy as anything,  

shining coat and an expression
of near-human alarm.
 

IV.

Everyone loved the lieutenant.
The future had already awarded him
all possible medals, so that when
he dressed for elegant functions
every lamp grew involved
in his chest, as we all were.   

His son, a rabid birdwatcher,
was equally as pretty and his accident
depressed us hugely.  That was the week
the newsletter shut itself down.
 

V.

I’m not crying.  It’s just the photograph
of milkweed getting in my eyes,
an allergic reaction, but I will not
take the photo down, because it hails
from a nobler time, when cryptobotanists
plotted to legislate the earth.
 

VI.

In an emergency-like situation,
such as we have just survived,
the light takes on an air
of reduced wattage, as if

the first sacrifice might loosen
all the rest.  Meanwhile I will
always closely guard the band of men
within me—when it goes quiet
they nap in my mane.
 

VII.

The leaflet said Remember
Mikey Premo.  I tried, but
that was when the dancing girls
invaded my brain, forcing
the dead man to order cocktails
for his generously compensated date.

If there is a speck of dignity on this planet
they did not plant it deep within me.
 

VIII.

The lieutenant told me that I am
a good horse and then he unscrewed
my belly to inspect my recent past.   

The sound my teeth make when
I’m sleeping is like an electric harmonica
that someone buried but forgot to unplug.
 

IX.

For the funeral they tinted my coat
a somber shade of green
and I constantly checked my pace
against the dragging metronome.

The sun beat down on my aluminum
flanks which were designed to keep
the homemade refreshments warm.   
 

X.

At the debriefing the lieutenant said
that loss was as inevitable as sand.
He said it with so little conviction
that the men began to slowly deflate:
first an arm, then a torso, until
the room was nothing but folding chairs,
wrinkled shirts and me,  

hitched to the whiteboard,
minutes printing from my mouth.