Brindled, where what’s left of the light finds him, he cowers in front of me: one way, as I remember it, that a body having grown accustomed to receiving punishment expresses
receipt, or a readiness for it, or—wild, bewildered—the desire to.
Above us, the usual branches lift unprophetically or not, depending: now spears; now arrows. There’s a kind of tenderness that makes more tender
all it touches. There’s a need that ruins. Dark. The horse comes closer. A smell to him like that of the earth when it’s been too long dry, drought-long,