She scatters the rocks, shattered, as she gales forth, the hill rises running together along the edge of mirage, Barreling down the track and shaking like a squeaking water wheel around a pivot post, Backquarters built up and interlocked along the vertebrae, withers huge, Forelegs slanted like the columns of a temple, the muscle packed on above the knees. When you brandish the whip above her, a sharp pulsing beneath her ribs drives her on. She blocks the gap between her hind legs with a bristling tail that barrenness has made luxuriant, Hooves like the hammers of a smith, not fleshy, or padded with tufts of hair. At rest at midday she stands in the tent's shade like a white antelope at dusk in a glen of wild lote trees, Like a stone washed up and stranded at the edge of the flood, boulders thrown down beneath it. I wore her down to the marrow of the bones, the flesh along the joints shrunken back.
Immortality resides in possessions.
Lack them and your day will grieve.