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a horse nips at the palm tree,

it’s tongue is long and the trunk

is salty.  he walks to the other side of

the round hill, the one that is rounder ten feet

up than it is at bottom.  the horse sees

his friends, he wants to join them, but

a figure of leather, cuts across the red

night, the horizon of a future.  The man on

his own steed tears down a

hill under the cover of sunset.  He takes the

animal, who was free,

and talks to it the whole way home.

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