PŌNIKŌAN

PŌNIKŌAN / Joshua Alan Sturgill

let go the my.
what you could stand
hours in line to claim
suchness in little packages?

let go the little.
smallness increases
with grasping, until
the animal escapes the great

gaps between your fingers,
rice, fish, soul, pony.
Let go the pony. he can’t fail
to intrigue you — the you

standing hours in line,
hope-child in hand, birds
of questions flying along rubber
contours, molded joints. Rubens

once painted a pony, out of all
proportion to pony nowness,
of asses to asses, dust
is the glittering label: my.

let go the my.
The pony is without size.
Reality is only the stampeding
of illusion