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Paulus Potter, The ‘Piebald’ Horse (1650-1654) Wikimedia Commons

I think of my Floridian friend. She likes the spotted horses best. I think of my friend in her car on the green of Florida, and the black sky beside her – stormclouds like a jug of heavy flowers on an empty table.

My friend between the lakes, the fruit-soft slackenings where the alligators live motionless. The orange blossoms and their scent which is like an object in the air, like rope on water. My green-eyed friend conducting her body through the black snakes and the snow of pentas. My friend amidst the towers of porches, old wood, and on the lawn the evening clouds, which are hued like light on beasts, yellow and pink because their bodies are white.

The spotted horses cross and reveal my friend’s face as they run. When I was young in shop class I dropped metal crumbs, machine-colored and hot as viscera, onto soft silver, where they cooled and left black speckled impressions. These horses’ furs grew toward heat, blackened from foalhood – muscle and color jams itself into the light, running.

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