You trot forward
And canter back
One ball hits the crossbar
One finds the touchline
Keep moving
Knees give
Stomach heaves
And wants to give
Even more
Your face is ancient
The skull
Of the oldest horse
In the world
More sockets than eyes
More blindness than vision
More vision than the first horse
Who slipped its blinders
And ran
And found there were no markings
No painted lines
In the meadow
— Max Thrax is managing editor of APOCALYPSE CONFIDENTIAL.