The foxes and wolves twist around the legs of the horses,
unafraid of the hooves which could easily pound them into jelly.
All the horses are standing completely still,
frozen mid-cantor, mid-whinny.
I press my ear to one of their bellies and can hear a ticking
and whirring inside, a metallic scratching.
The foxes and wolves are twisting around my ankles
and the ankles of all the frozen horses;
I can see their ribs poking through their pelts.
The ground is one vast carpet stretching to the horizon
in every direction, covered with flower prints and geometric patters
colored all the different shades of dust.
Night falls and the horses glow in the moonlight.
the sky is filling up with black balloons
and the forests are charred toothpicks
and the fields have turned to dust.
The river is just a trickle
and the skin between your legs
is hard and dry as a scab,
you pick at it but once it starts peeling
it won't stop and before you know it
you've peeled all your flesh off
as the black egg of the sun cracks open
to let its golden goo drip and pool
just beyond the horizon
Next morning the huntsmen lie scattered about the fields,
their bodies hidden by industrious flies
as the sun sops up their blood like a sponge.
The foxes and wolves are nowhere to be found
though I keep thinking I catch glimpses of
the tip of a tail here, a quivering snout there.
A flash of red, a dash of gray.
I reach into the cloud of flies
and gingerly extricate a curved hunting horn
I lift the horn to my lips
and the world bursts into flames.