a woman with nothing appears beside a horse as one of us recalls our failure to give her anything to keep from it.  we watch her as if she were a documentary on the tunnel vision of our blood.  our hearing of the riddle we mistake for a language.  if a child has time to squawk, a child has time to pout about how it’s been portrayed to the world.  thus far, the world is a dark wall said to have donkeys pinned to it.  I’m starving, but only on the outside.