Wonder gets up in his stall. From the box
on the wall I take a wide silver comb. It’s dark
in the barn. And cold, and night—all horse 
beds. And horse eyes blinking. With the comb 
in one hand I pull the metal peg from the side
of his door and slide the door back in its track.
Its noise is a prank in the night, a momentary
violence. Wonder with his wary face eyes
the fat comb in my hand. This he’ll allow. 
This comb conversation—wire tap. Air mail.
A stethoscope warming between us.