Furlongs Past

The day is a tired old horse,

ready for putting down by dawn

the sun pinking up the sky

like an incubator delivering

a baby from jaundice.

The hours are furlongs past desire,

past the cantering, galloping

stallions they once were,

bathed in morning or evening's

promise of primordial freedoms,

past even nibbling on grass,

staring long-faced into deep fields

lazily swatting at flies.

I had hoped to win this battle --

was quite the soldier,

staring down the barrel

with a resolute soul, aiming,

accustomed to success.

I shudder in the wind

an anemic veal calf

chained, muscle-less.

No one will fire.

Love is merciless.