Strange Things Happen in Island Bay

A horse bolted through the city the other morning
and was hit by a car.
He trailed the cold tail of the night
and ran towards Island Bay and the thin slant of dawn,
like an eye slowly opening.
A black horse, like a shadow fleeing its tethers,
shot past the stunned joggers on Adelaide road,
seeking the green tongue of the hill,
or the unshod sea, or the patience of seasons.
But he panicked at the traffic lights
and bled out, alone with his language,
speaking to no one.
And the people who passed him on their morning commute
were wide eyed, as if a fairy tale had invaded
the grey dawn of their neat, solid little city.
Sometimes we collide with the incomprehensible,
confusion, panic, sharp winter arousal of senseless death.
Anyway, he died with a blanket on his head
under the traffic light still changing,
like nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all.
And nothing had happened, and everything.


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