A horse in blinkers.

Blindspot, every man’s vice, a pin in the map that ripped.
Lay out your limbs like wares for the boys to see

Exceptional tricks with your eyes closed,
The taste of sand.

                           Push it further, dress the scene:
A camera, and another slung over shoulder,
Penetrating quiet stroll of quarantine, coming

Up for air.

Choose a name
Choose a town,
Choose a leaving age