From the balcony above the barn
I can see
At night when white
Muscles grown taught
look so ghostly-real and bold
I hear it clopping
As it comes to the trough
To drink
A horse is a real thing which men ride upon
This one has run
down newborn calves
To kill them,
maybe sport, maybe malice
Maybe at night it thinks about chasing down things that it can kill
as it drinks
And looks around when it wakes
Each day
And maybe once every few years its insides lurch
when it sees one
Trying to stand there
Shaking wet near the afterbirth
And falling down
it thinks it will chase it away
from its four legged dog tired mother either way
And stamp it into the ground
Like it has on four occasions that I know of
The horse is named Enoch
It knows death intimately
And has never fathered anything
It stands over the trough with its nose in the water
And thinks about birth and death
And running to meet them both
-Apesblood
