Poetry

Admit coming upon the fallen horse at evening,
now asleep but withered, now reducing as you near, now

We have gone through
so many revisions of the prelude
that we no longer know

If we are at war let the orchards show it,
let the pear and fig fall prior to their time,
let the radios die
and the hounds freeze over their meat.

Like scribes, they lean closer, watching
the old men he blessed for long life stand and listen.

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