A Hoof of Horses

    "I can't because I have no hands"

He folds fingers inside, flaps sleeves uselessly in front of his face.

"See?"

No-one sees. It's almost Christmas. I'm making gift horses, little red horses, a whole -

    "What's the collective noun for horses?"
    "Hoof"

He says, fluttering his fake stumps at me. But I'm not making them now, anyway.

    "Shut the fuck up"

Shan walks this certain distance apart, looking professional, or disdainful.  I smile at him, because he hates that.

    "Stable"

he mutters, turning away, then:

    "Fucking hoof - unbelievable"

Barely audible. I can see he spoke from the mist rising mostly.

The house is next to us, we keep walking like we haven't noticed it. Don't look at the house. I'm touching the things in my pocket. Folded knife, cigarette papers, inhaler, half-made horses.

"I'll do it"

They stop and look at me, both of them. I can't read faces that well.

Tigers

Your shirt burned perpetual stripes on my retina
so now with forced closed eyes I track your movement 
not by the sticky braille of skin at my fingertips but
this dying radiation your luminosity there sears through
more porous green gets contained by the greater
density of black and through blind palms I see your marks