Hoarse in the morning, I try to clear my throat
of loose mucus and nonessential facts.
In Italy, researchers put horses in front of mirrors
to see if they recognize themselves.
Results are inconclusive. In the mirror,
the grass buckles. In the mirror, I wonder
if I could think of my body objectively.
I look up to see the movement of the day,
clouds tilling the upstart heavens.
The horse nears a decision and balks.
At Myopia Hunt Club, people with hats on horses
chase a fox. They squint at the ground.
The hounds track a laid scent. The huntsman
drags a urine-soaked rag over the schooling field.
It rained all of October, and I have trouble in the rain.

Nora Sullivan is a poet from Massachusetts. A Zell Fellow at the University of Michigan, Helen Zell Writers' Program, her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Chicago Review, Bat City Review, Sho Poetry Journal, The Southeast Review, and the Michigan Quarterly Review Online.