I have read of a man torn apart by horses,
          first four (as in an apocalypse) then six,
                    he required, yes, six in their obedient fury.

And still he did not recant or repent
          though he cried out to Jesus
                    for mercy as he was divided

Only the horses and Monsieur Damien know
          the weight of each limb, and this
                    is not blasphemy—

“Kiss me, gentlemen,” he asked, and so
          one did, though not the priest.

Go figure—a body—divisible sums
          and the flesh of sturdy horses—
                    before a Paris Church.

I am soft and have never learned to ride,
          to carry any weight, to go any further
                    than my thin white flanks can take me.

A single horse could tear me to bits. I have
          been taught only to read and parse,
                    to bear the dead on a hearse of words.