half broke horse in a forest graveyard

Jeannette Walls musta wrote half broke horses

with frozen crayons on frost bit chalkboards

manes were dropped stitches.

Wax snapped on the way to meaning,

a fingers-dirty legacy of tossing halters.

 

“We ran free,” the man in knackered flannel explained,

“because no one could stick us with a name.”

 

 

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