The horse was on fire, but only his eyes The shed was on fire but only the panes The field was on fire but only the pond. ~ by S.K. Orr

Her Holy Meal I tripped on the threshold and sprawled into the fodder on the floor, unable to ever stand again. In the black barn I passed an hour’s year, face in the stalks, too spent to push the ground away with my beaten arms, and I approached the brink of endless, endless tenebrae with a coat of feigned relief. It came to me after a time, the heavy quake, the machine song, an acre’s issue of stones in a polishing drum. And when I managed the strength to lift one eyelid, ponderous as a stove-lid, my seeing her was simultaneous with my scenting her. Above me, near me, enormous…