To an Ibex
I do not know to which one I refer
when speaking of your horns—they are all so
impressive that I cannot, one, prefer
to any other. How unique they grow!
And still so recognizable are they.
One knows exactly who they see when seen.
All bow to what you carry on display,
and call you, in their hearts, by the same mean.
But not by the same name. We are precise
when in our hearts we think about your shape.
How language has the tendency to splice
apart what truth must wrap back up with tape.
Creation is divisible and one—
no category has been justly spun.