In The Year Of The Horse Poem by Keith Shorrocks Johnson

ZEN GALLS

My pony would stand and let me
Crumble the night-eyes on his fore-legs -
Extraordinary muskiness -

Raised, dry, broken and calloused
Like a dead wart or the crust on a roast
Or a shank truffle.

And my dog would be snaffled by the smell
Of the pieces that broke away
And the three of us would share
A weird sacrament.

It seems that time is an illusion
And that its only purpose is so that
Everything doesn't happen at once.

That old chestnut!