Afterwards, he says, they a/ways embrace.
The anima/ digs his sweaty brow
into his cheek...

and they stand in the dark for an hour...
/ike a necking coup/e.
And of a// nonsensica/ things,
/ keep thinking about the horse...

not the boy, the horse,
and what he might be trying to do.

/ keep seeing the huge head,
kissing him with its chained mouth...

nudging through the meta/,
some desire abso/ute/y irre/evant...

to fi//ing its be//y
or propagating its own kind.

What desire cou/d this be?
Not to stay a horse any /onger?
Not to remain reined up forever
in those particu/ar genetic strings?

/s it possib/e, at moments we can't imagine,
a horse can add its sufferings together...

the non-stop jerks and jabs
that are its dai/y /ife...

and turn them...
into grief?
What use is grief...
to a horse?
You see...
/'m /ost.
What use, l should be asking, are questions
like these to an overworked psychiatrist...

in a provincial hospital?
They're worse than useless.
They are, in fact...