​i remember one time
my grandfather whispered to his horse,

coaxing it to make the gallop for the barn
despite the thunder.

thinking about this helps me 
to keep my rhythm when i can. i don't know why.

every so often i remember his horse,
finally bolting for the barn as lightning flashed.

i think my rhythm
has always been a horse-rhythm,

my silence has always been warm,
like the center of hay-bales.

perhaps waking & going back to sleep
is the best thing

for understanding
how horses can run for so long.

there is something like a horse
in my life.

it bucks when trains go by
and clops alongside me to the factory.

it leaves hoof-prints in metal shavings,
eats from my sack lunch.

i shrunk my horse down
a long time ago.

it leapt into a pencil sketch i had made.
it posed, laughing modestly beneath an apple tree.

i keep it folded in my shirt pocket.
it presses its face against my chest.

it whispers quiet things to my heart 
to encourage it,

like a man
to a horse.

ANTON FROST has appeared in Verdad, The Bacon Review, Parcel, Grasslimb, and elsewhere. He lives in Michigan.
The Adirondack Review