I remember the ponies¹ in the distance.

    I remember you talked of a war， no two wars， a failed marriage——discretely， without force or grandeur².

    This was before they amputated your leg， before the stroke.

    You rolled your r‘s， spoke³ of Oxford，recalled driving in the Quaker ambulance unit in China，where you saw an oil drum filled with severed⁴ limbs.

    Pleased to have your approval， I rarely spoke.

    You were like a father to me and I was grateful.

    I remember the ponies behind the fence， muscular，breathing， how they worried the grass.

    The ponies said： This day astounds⁵ us. The field is green.

    We love nothing better than space and more space.

    Ah， they knew what I needed to know.

    They lived in their bodies.

    If the ponies wanted to kiss， they kissed.

    They moved like the shadows of airplanes.

    They knew no hatred⁶， but fear they understood.

    The sky was shot clear with blue.

    After the picnic， we gathered the tablecloth⁷.

    As we left， I could still see the ponies，

    crowding one another， free and unbroken.