As he bled the horses ran by the window.
The grey patched horses, old
and stumbling like an avalanche while his heart came
unstitched. That slow gallop matched his pulse.
And then the power went out.
Typical, he thought. The weatherwoman had mentioned
rain, but he was hearing her voice without
listening. Either way, it wasn’t raining, and he bled.
He saw the grocery list on the counter. From where
he stood (next to the window) he couldn’t
make out what it read. Was it, lightbulbs?
The horses were gone.
Washing his hands, now rusty, a knock at the door.
He placed his heart in the drainer, and went to answer it.
He was distracted. As was I.
He thought he saw a flash of something in the dark.
As did I.
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