after Macbeth Our tracks are a course
Perhaps chosen.
An impossible task,
Wobbly
And daunting.
A wrestling
Of history
And science
Looping,
Deeper into
Lived science,
Horsed into
Canvas and
Riddled in
The thickness
Of paint.
It is the trick
Of the scrape;
And his scuff
Is remarkable,
And horrible.
His loose construction,
His patterned gaze,
Leaves us
Dead
And with the want
Of help
And the want
Of power.
But all of our yesterdays
Are lost forever.
Unwilling
To slip
Into capable,
To slip
Into possible.
All of our yesterdays
Are fallen
And felled.
It is a slaughter
Wreathed around
Our skies.
It is the slaughter
Beneath
The yesterdays
That we secure.
Carry them
Into tomorrow
That longing
Is worth the price.
You, Gallop.
Gallop.
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