We were made to suffer. Mostly,
the man you love doesn’t know you

love him, and the woman you love
can’t say that she loves you often

enough where you might believe it
in your horse-heart. Even the dog

you love, you leave with a stranger,
better than you with a green yard—

small but full of sun and crickets
and a corner where the oak shade

lights the ground like a darker star—
somewhere. You must have visited

once in a dream, you were lucky
to stay and now you can never

go back. You can never return
what you took (then used to ruin)

like the hero, who is content
in killing everything without

consequence, firm in the belief
nothing should be met with silence.