Talk of Horses
A woman eating gruel at the end of the village
also talks of horses.
A child who likes colored juice also talks of horses.
Far away, in a pond,
a man holding a stone in his arms never stops talking of horses.
Listen to my talk of horses.
A horse that has chewed tobacco in the straw doesn't stop struggling.
Horses neigh deeply, deeply between today and tomorrow.
A horse's full moon.
Because the villagers want talks of horses,
the horses stand erect as a cliff.
Because a rainbow of horses hangs over the roof the TV stops working.
Because villagers want talks of horses,
from one end of the tobacco field surges a flood of horses' afterbirths.
Their riots year in year out
never stop politely surprising the villagers.
(Can you imagine that cliché?)
They hang sheets from high windows and shout:
We want to talk of horses!
I wanted to talk of horses.
Just one talk of horses.
Then
from a paddy ridge flaming horses gallop out.
They are finally truly surprised
that they themselves are horse-shaped.
The awe-struck villagers
make a dam of red manes.
Now let's talk of horses!
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