The Five-Thousand-Year-Old Heart I've Swallowed

The hooves, the hooves of horses came toward me.

I stared at the ceiling bulb; I stared at the filament in the bulb, at the

little hooves.

No, I didn't know that they had come clop-clopping into my eyes from

an evening five-hundred—some five-thousand—years ago.

Why did my body miss the desert for such a long time? Why did I

borrow the body of that dying water bird to wander the empty sky?

The heart some five-thousand years old that I've swallowed listens to

the sounds of the desert's sand storm. It watches a deep-blue lake float,

rippling gently.

When morning comes I hear the shrieks of the horses that came

toward me all night as the hobnails are struck at heaven's village

blacksmith.

Do earthly flowers bloom and fall in thirst for every useless thing

in the world?

I should go on my way but it's too far; my eyes still endlessly swallow

the horses' hooves. Do the flowers bloom and fall and bloom and fall

without knowing the endless loneliness

of my bare feet?