Or maybe you are my own lifescheming desperately to climb back in.

There is a fieldof talking bloodthat I have not been ableto reach,not even with knives,not yet.

But your half-grinis the only image that comes clear.All the words lead to that

She had some horses.She had some horses she loved.She had some horses she hated.These were the same horses.

I believe that poets have to be inside their poems somewhere, or the poem won't work.