|A horse runs in a corral;|
small clouds of dust rise behind him.
This is exactly how the scene became memory
except for the slight inconvenience
of an ill-placed utility pole,
|Faint shadows of overhead lines|
tie raised legs into a knot,
slip into the ground.
|Dead grass and green vapor |
pale into white.
Hills and sky mean nothing.
|For a moment, the artist holds gallop|
round and heavy, hard as an apple
in the palm of her hand.