Painted Horses Wet With Rain
Sitting with you, drawing with you,
Playing with you from second through sixth:
You were our class genius and painted horses wet with rain,
Before you had breasts, in their pastures without fences;
In the pastures they owned.
Your mother pitied herself for abandoned
By the mural painter who stayed a few months
In our small gossip of a town,
Leaving a daughter with new translucent skin
And eyes that chased after
Perspective like butterflies from birth,
And hated you.
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