I Give My Orders to Myself:

March. Follow after them,
even if your legs can't bring themselves to bound
even if your heart sinks like cold air.
Watch them dash, tearing up the world --
and linger after, trailing your hooves.

Move. Follow their rhythm, a step too slow
and wonder what the music that they hear is
when everything you sing's an elegy
to some bygone sunny day
(for a minute, her phantom's brushing, muzzle
to my cheek, and my breath draws sharp)

Make-believe, just for their eyes
that something in you's still whole
some butterfly thing of irredescent wings
some charming twist of light.
(Don't let them see the future --
the one she asked me if I still saw once --
that's lying like broken-glass caltrops).

Join them, just don't let them see
Joy's too fragile a thing to waste.