Louise Glück

The Winged Horse

Here is my horse Abstraction,
silver-white, color of the page,
of the unwritten.

Come, Abstraction,
by Will out of Demonic Ambition:
carry me lightly into the regions of the immortal.

I am weary of my other mount,
by Instinct out of Reality,
color of dust, of disappointment,
the saddle that went with him
and the bronze spurs, the bit
of indestructible metal.

I am weary of the world’s gifts, the world’s
stipulated limits.

And I am weary of being opposed
and weary of being constantly contradicted by the material, as by
a massive wall where all I can say can be
checked up on.

Then come, Abstraction,
take me where you have taken so many others,
far from here, to the void, the star pasture.

Bear me quickly,
Dream out of Blind Hope