I disrupt my day by throwing a horse through a window.
This soothes the gestures, halts the walking.
The horse is not hurt: it is not a question of violence.
It’s a shatter, then lollop, then silence.
I hold the horse’s mass to my hips,
one—two—threeee!
It arcs through the air.
Then lollops and folds on an upstairs carpet.
The weight which had gathered in my knees lifts.
A window of float-glass:
a conveyor belt of water
extrudes it, cools it, rolls away.
The glass is not a steady thickness all the way through.
The sound inside a shatter is shiny, high and clean.
It sounds like it’s happening elsewhere like through a screen.
The shards arc up, away and down.
I repeat the one—two—three! as I walk around town.
The one—two of the walking is layered over with the one—two—three.
The syncopation disrupts the conveyor belt movement of the water for the glass and my body around town.
Inside the syncopation are silence.