What Remains

On wide ground
a horse

had turned its head

and was looking back.

Beside it

there was no one.

No hand on the reins,

no load on its back.

Even so

the horse did not leave.

Nor the house.

Nor the tree.

Nor the sea.

I

looked at my hand.

A hand that had long held a brush.

I opened the fingers

one by one.

The last finger

opened late.

It was an empty hand.

Again

I looked at the painting.

Beside the horse

I wanted to set

someone, anyone.

Instead

I wiped the brush on a rag.

On the rag

came off the color of dried grass.