Spring 1956 • Vol. XVIII No. 2 PoetryApril 1, 1956 |

The Apex Animal

A Horse, thin-colored as oranges ripened in freight-cars which have shaken casements through the miles of night across three nights of field and waterfront warehouses—Rather, the narrow Head of the Horse with the teeth shining and white ear-tufts: It, I fancy, and from experience commend the fancy to your inner eye, It is the One, in a patch of altitude troubled only by clarity of weather, Who sees, the ultimate Recipient of what happens, the One Who is aware when, in the administrative wing a clerk returns from noon-day, though the ointment of mortality for one strange hour, in all his lustreless life, has touched his face. (For that Head of a Horse there is no question whether he spent the noon-hour with a friend, below street-level, or on the parapet—a matter which may safely rest in mortal memory.)

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