Flies

Under the blasted tree the horse lies dead,
Its face upturned, eyes black with flies,
Nostrils and lips encrusted
With chitinous, rank coagulate.
The insects crawl on the lolling tongue;
Its belly bloated though two days past
It starved, ribcage protruding.
And here, there, the horse hair parts,
Skin and hidden layers uncoil
As maggots eat their way out
To the wider fly-blown world.


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