A man asked me to marry him.
It was a day cloud-scarce, the sky bright and skeletal
like a beginning. I saw right through
to his wild green heart
as he explained the impossible, believing
if there is a time machine it is not a ship in space,
but a horse on the hemline of a field
fearless in one direction, toward sunup.
Then, the night sky would bloom
into brilliance and there, see?, there I am—he can
barely make me out—a figment tearing toward him
through the spring, at last.
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