Poets, who speak clearly with less

I am on a rampage: Tearing through anthologies, looking for a poet who says what is in my heart; if they say it, I won't have to expose my bones and I can pick over theirs.

Scavenger, that is me.

My arm tastes like minerals, raspberries, dust, sunscreen; I squint against the backs of my eyes and catch the sun's orb silhouetted against the lids.

The horse moves over the July grass in search of clover and shade. I sit astride holding a thin piece of rope that attaches to the leather of his halter. Sweating his hair mats and sticks to my bare legs. I wait, he eats, clouds and birds roll across our horizon