Field - Jane Hirshfield

[Lawrence Robinson]

Field

A horse’s field of vision, with both large eyes open,
covers three hundred and fifty degrees. Only a little is missing.
A few inches directly in front of the face, a sliver behind the tail.
Sometimes an era, a country, turns into a horse.
A plunging forward. Its own stinging bee that it flees.
Denying future and past, trampling people as if they were pliable grasses.

	- Jane Hirshfield
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