Grizzled the mount to the other mount, and the mount to the observer
Pin wheeling mid gallop with the flywheel shins
Said the wax man: “nothing”, rendered mute by his torture
Head near the canopy and feet tapered down into pins.
Waif horses screaming, all oblivious, all oblivion; leers the maid, had they heard her?
Could it ever be absurder?
With the suits and the meshes and their dresses of skin.
But what of this madness? Three riders, three rides, three horses
Fused joints, jaws cloned with nutcrackers, rude faces, crude cast iron grins!

The horse, and the sailor, and the soldier, and the nude man
The lady in terror with the apocalyptic chagrin
All fixed in their apathy, all united in the game plan;
Round, round and round by an unfathomable whim
Expressed by the mounts – the triangular cuttings
Of the inverted eye slits and spurred by their kin
Whirr, whirr and whirr more, freeze-frame the confusion
A noiseless cascade, an name-defiant sin.