sacrificing

It was a Christian idea, sacrificing
oneself to attain the object of one's desire.
I was weak and he was like opium to me,
so present and forceful. I believed I saw myself
through him, as if in a bucket being drawn
up a well, cold and brown as tea.
My horse was wet all that summer.
I pushed him, he pushed me back--proud, lonely,
disappointed--until I rode him,
or he rode me, in tight embrace, and life went on.
I lay whole nights--listless, sighing, gleaming
like a tendril on a tree--withdrawn
into some desiccated realm of beauty.
The hand desired, but the heart refrained.
[Henri Cole, 'Blur: 1' from Pierce the Skin: Selected Poems]