Summer an anti-shadow, diamond-bladed,
and you, the soft-bodied starfish, the bell,
a slim book to be opened. Patience,
profusion. Nothing less than a pageant:
caught breath and the current, pulling
and pulling and pulling and pulling.
I dig my heels in and wish
for spurs: she must be pushed
from the stall into the field.
But close to home, she hastens
on her own. I rock like a rowboat
in my saddle, grip the horn.
We hope to break her, teach her
no difference between the exile
and the arrival.