Issue 91, Spring 1984
All night long, on all sides of the house, there ate large, black, invisible horses
grazing in the stubbled field. Their legs are tied. The sound of their hooves
moving across the dry sheaves, is the only living thing in the world.
And that cavernous moon, shining above the Customhouse,
suffused with a warm, extravagant futility. Why of course, he said,
the sense of beauty is always interwoven with this long-known,
this long-forgotten idea of the futile. If there’s a knock at the door,
don’t answer it. Let them break it down first. Why go on fooling ourselves?
But no, you must answer it. They might be bringing us—
you know, that wooden horse.