Everyone knows what not to do
in a dream,
and in a dream everyone has the heart
to tell you who you are.
He was sorry for how he’d sat
a massacre in the guise of a man
at a party for a boy he didn’t know,
by forty years, most thinking
he’d come in with the caterer.
There’s a man who sees
the real hue of things, someone said.
In fact he had in him
which allowed him to see not hues
but residues, and behind him,
where the majestic tail of his life should have been,
was just a boy
asking whether he would agree
to play horse in a game of Knights.
So he bore on his bad back
a boy who fought half as a madman
to rescue a princess
who did not exist,
and spared three adversaries
who did not deserve it
when their spears broke
on the small of his back.
After, he sat with the boy on a bench
and spoke to him not knowing
which chemicals were left in him,
the new ones
or the ones he’d been born with.
He put a hand on the boy’s head
I am your horse. Would the boy accept?
Yes, he would.
the man said to the boy,
you don’t see—
and putting his face so close
their two faces were almost one
he said, I am your horse. I am
your horse. I am your horse.