The wind claps the slates;
all night they are hooves running berserk,
all night the wind is inciting them;
all night.
At twenty past two and twenty past three
and twenty past four I am looking at you;
how I would love to have hooves to come
crashing through your sleep, to burst into
your solitude.
And there I would, for better or worse,
demolish the muzzled years with as much
violence as reverberates beneath iron shoes,
as causes such a frenzy in stone
that slates
stampede.
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