Sometimes it comes in a sleep
 in which you dream of the blackest horses,

It comes riding on the strong back of the animal,
or is tangled in its mane.  Often, it is

itself the glowing coal of an eye,
which burns through you. 

Sometimes it comes from the air,
rising from the strangeness of a threatening sky. 

Wind exhales it into your ear,
or it seeps through the ground

like the fresh spring;
then it chills us--

It comes in the body of nature, or not.
It is not always a mystery.

It may come to you in the memory
of a city; perhaps San Francisco

or New Orleans or Tucson.
Or in the recollection

of the first and last kiss
of someone you loved, or did not.

Today it came to me
as a bird; its wingbeat

light as a whisper, pecking
fruit in a verdant heart.