- Vol. 03
- Chapter 11
Image by Bruce Connew
Horse EyeThe eye brings back
a small palm sledging
down a long sloped nose;
flesh without the comfort of fat,
like an outgrown antler, velveted,
cloaks the bone and terror of a stag.
The eye whispers of olives, and fluids;
surface tension brims along the hairy rim,
ductless; some slick oil round one black sloe
picked by old hands. That old thumbnail bruise.
The eye shines like new bird shit on the window.
From above the trees nature lets me know it knows.
It plays docile, sad eye; thousand year egg toxic, unbroken.