• Vol. 10
  • Chapter 12
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I woke up to find the horse missing
from the painting and the gates flung open
like the jaws of a theatre audience. Now,
it is just a picture of green pasture
and blue sky, with hills doing the work
of separation between them. Previously,
I had named it The Grazing Horse.
Now what should I call it when the object
after which it was named thought
it belonged somewhere else?
Just like in life, the painting becomes
what it has missing—the baggage of all
that was lost hanging in it—rather
             than what it still contains.