A Spavined Horse

Ignorant of his tomb, though not of death, as bog spavin accumulates on its hock, a spavined horse advances. The cenital orb blasts farmland into dissolution, a white shadow obscuring faith in the next step as it swallows all preconceived destination, yet the horse finds balance enough in the hidden receptacle of gravity even as the shrouded rocks and dents all seem bent against him. All romp out of his gait, lame, reduced by lack of nourishment that felt logically warranted, consciousness reduced to the hoof’s clatter as to extract the last remnants of sense out of rhythm, the horse taps and steps, taps and steps, with destination abstracted into obduration. A gust, that barely inflames the surface with dust, carries also the scaffolding progression of rot as the unaccounted party approaches the slaughter shanty, where mute viscera buzz with the lent language of flies, contemplating their brief emancipation from the hierarchy of body, savoring a kingly independence in vegetal or mineral thrones with immobile patience. The spavined horse moved on, flinching only against the flies’ bloodlust, but persistent, with as infinitesimal prance as his lameness permitted, in quiet rumination of stupidity, as his indifference of terminus blotted out abhorrent danger. The horseshoe struck into concrete and echoes mapped the interior as if darkness rippled too in homogeneous solution with emptiness, which slowly gorged on the masses of the party as they ingress’d the cool shade in chironic amalgam to then be excised by its healing of blindness, as if obscurity also refreshed the forms and trappings of matter. The spavined horse tried to march on in his parade across the illogical landscape, set over the gore drains, under paradoxical satisfactions, but was stopped, deprived of the fanatical inertia of his hypnotic cavalcade, by figures now in possession of their whole frames.