The brow of a horse in that moment when

    The horse is drinking water so deeply from a trough

    It seems to inhale the water， is holy.

    I refuse to explain.

    When the horse had gone the water in the trough，

    All through the empty summer，

    Went on reflecting clouds & stars.

    The horse cropping grass in a field，

    And the fly buzzing around its eyes， are more real

    Than the mist in one corner of the field.

    Or the angel hidden in the mist， for that matter.

    Members of the Committee on the Ineffable，

    Let me illustrate this with a story， & ask you all

    To rest your heads on the table， cushioned，

    If you wish， in your hands， &， if you want，

    Comforted by a small carton of milk

    To drink from， as you once did， long ago，

    When there was only a curriculum of beach grass，

    When the University of Flies was only a distant humming.

    In Romania， after the war， Stalin confiscated

    The horses that had been used to work the fields.

    "You won't need horses now，" Stalin said， cupping

    His hand to his ear， "Can't you hear the tractors

    Coming in the distance？ I hear them already."

    The crowd in the Callea Victoria listened closely

    But no one heard anything. In the distance

    There was only the faint glow of a few clouds.

    And the horses were led into boxcars & emerged

    As the dimly remembered meals of flesh

    That fed the starving Poles

    During that famine， & part of the next one——

    In which even words grew thin & transparent，

    Like the pale wings of ants that flew

    Out of the oldest houses， & slowly

    What had been real in words began to be replaced

    By what was not real， by the not exactly real.

    "Well， not exactly， but. . ." became the preferred

    Administrative phrasing so that the man

    Standing with his hat in his hands would not guess

    That the phrasing of a few words had already swept

    The earth from beneath his feet. "That horse I had，

    He was more real than any angel，

    The housefly， when I had a house， was real too，"

    Is what the man thought.

    Yet it wasn't more than a few months

    Before the man began to wonder， talking

    To himself out loud before the others，

    "Was the horse real？ Was the house real？"

    An angel flew in and out of the high window

    In the factory where the man worked， his hands

    Numb with cold. He hated the window & the light

    Entering the window & he hated the angel.

    Because the angel could not be carved into meat

    Or dumped into the ossuary & become part

    Of the landfill at the edge of town，

    It therefore could not acquire a soul，

    And resembled in significance nothing more

    Than a light summer dress when the body has gone.

    The man survived because， after a while，

    He shut up about it.

    Stalin had a deep understanding of the kulaks，

    Their sense of marginalization & belief in the land；

    That is why he killed them all.

    Members of the Committee on Solitude， consider

    Our own impoverishment & the progress of that famine，

    In which， now， it is becoming impossible

    To feel anything when we contemplate the burial，

    Alive， in a two-hour period， of hundreds of people.

    Who were not clichés， who did not know they would be

    The illegible blank of the past that lives in each

    Of us， even in some guy watering his lawn

    On a summer night. Consider

    The death of Stalin & the slow， uninterrupted

    Evolution of the horse， a species no one，

    Not even Stalin， could extinguish， almost as if

    What could not be altered was something

    Noble in the look of its face， something

    Incapable of treachery.

    Then imagine， in your planning proposals，

    The exact moment in the future when an angel

    Might alight & crawl like a fly into the ear of a horse，

    And then， eventually， into the brain of a horse，

    And imagine further that the angel in the brain

    Of this horse is， for the horse cropping grass

    In the field， largely irrelevant， a mist in the corner

    Of the field， something that disappears，

    The horse thinks， when weight is passed through it，

    Something that will not even carry the weight

    Of its own father

    On its back， the horse decides， & so demonstrates

    This by swishing at a fly with its tail， by continuing

    To graze as the dusk comes on & almost until it is night.

    Old contrivers， daydreamers， walking chemistry sets，

    Exhausted chimneysweeps of the spaces

    Between words， where the Holy Ghost tastes just

    Like the dust it is made of，

    Let's tear up our lecture notes & throw them out

    The window.

    Let's do it right now before wisdom descends upon us

    Like a spiderweb over a burned-out theater marquee，

    Because what's the use？

    I keep going to meetings where no one's there，

    And contributing to the discussion；

    And besides， behind the angel hissing in its mist

    Is a gate that leads only into another field，

    Another outcropping of stones & withered grass， where

    A horse named Sandman & a horse named Anastasia

    Used to stand at the fence & watch the traffic pass.

    Where there were outdoor concerts once， in summer，

    Under the missing & innumerable stars.