Driving, the horse corpse in the passenger seat, stilled, tho its woeful eyes opened, I’d passed a small park in town, with rolling hills, too smooth and round for a heathen to set foot upon, and another where she and I had planned to meet, its wide lawn, flat and closely cropped, the laughter of children quieted under summer’s heavy heat.
All of us are categorized as good or as bad, I’d thought, labeled as useful, or as not– for those Machiavellian, or in both ways of thinking, and in another way of speaking, tho we’d give it different names, all are sorted– our bodies piled– as forgiven, or as unforgiven, and the horse agreed, and silence greeted early evening’s blush.
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