On the steppe, quilted grasses, husks as far as the eye
can see, sprawling, knots and furriers in the marching
weather, a wave, the tender back and forth
of the herd, bristles, blood,
and the shock of ants on
the dying shoulder
of a wildebeest—that is you.

And wildebeest you are—through the grass, with your flaring
nostrils and all your relatives buzzing
wisp upon wisp around your hunchback. You
summon a raw bellow and others follow,
rangy, after the reddish tracks on the dry earth
in the rustling stalks. Still.
Now you lift a hoof.
Now you press him into the bank.