It is the kind of tree-infested black that lives
In the sluggish seabed of your mind.
The footsteps I leave on the dark sink back in
Like a palimpsest on the inside of my eyelid.
Ahead, the waterlogged path dived away
Shining in the reflections of the moon,
A silver thread waiting for a Theseus to follow.
Not me. I trod on, hoof slipping as if reluctant
To obey orders. Even the lack of noise was black.
The sides of nothing pushing, matting on my fur,
A dense emptiness somehow shrinking to smother you.
Open claustrophobia. I can sense it behind me.
Then, suddenly, a hole in the world,
Night retreating to reveal the stars in a puddle.
I gaze at the distance reflected up at me
And feel the weight of the horns on my head.