My pupils are caprine, with their elongated
horizontality, embossed upon a head that
floats above capricious legs that don’t like
being told where to walk.
I ram my head into the walls I choose—
whosoever might be audacious enough
to block my way—and I buck my hooves
behind me as they keel over.
On the reprehension of audacity, there
is One who seems to have some to spare,
an aggravating surplus of confidence that
gently commands, “Try me.”
But I don’t have the chance to respond, as
a superimposition of peace shaves my
hooves down to feet, transmutes my caprine
eyes with pupils whose eyes are sighted.
With an acquaintanceship with peace, a
nomad longs to settle down, a blacksmith’s
hammer strike is the slightest bit softer,
and those caprine of us become bipeds.
With a friendship with peace…oh!
What possibilities have even a hope of
escaping the imagination of the most
(or even least) faithful?