We were a few horses havingno wings, no manes, no meadows. We were all about running, andwith casual, soiled horseshoeswould sprint out of the streets’choked throats. Trees had turned into truncheons,and we were so full of tears thatcould cry for real amidall the smoke and fire. We were about to breakand at last pounded downon the table the fists wehad been waving in the air. This poem was gunned downin its opening lines or else itwould never have come to an end.