In sixth grade I drew horses with Linda.
She lay on the floor of her room
(I sat on a chair)
sketching the long muzzles
the perfect arches of the necks.

This may be how I discovered
certain things are impossible.

the line of careless scorn between eye and nostril

I began riding lessons at the same stable
where Linda went
but not at the same time.
I fell off a horse.

the rampant sinews making willing eclipses of themselves

She drew daily with her right hand
and mean spirits; horses poured from her.

I took up the violin.
I practiced an hour a day.

To play a scale correctly
is to hear each note
a split second before your finger touches
the neck of the instrument.
This is impossible.

The ways of drawing wrong the curves of a horse's body
are virtually infinite.

the wide forehead not tending towards
any geometric form,
a raft across the top of the face
the eye a dark star, a portal.

On the walls of Chauvet Cave
the necks are perfect;
the artist worked quickly, did not erase.