Under my window, a donkey breaks the spine of night, cracking the vertebrae of insane stars between crooked, yellow teeth. She shrieks a story I want blotted from my thoughts. I want that plot long-forgotten. Each time I begin to fall asleep, again, she keens, jolting me awake from dreams where I have killed her, and kneel to dig a grave west of the moor by fingernails. Poor tormented creature, she is still alive, though drunk, blind, her mouth all grunt and grind. Her mangled hooves curve upwards as she hobbles through the sodden bog, all start and stop, leaning into a hawthorn trunk, tilting the white crescents of her eyes towards the sky again — bloodshot, haunted. All night she brays, reminding me of what I long to forget:
                                 she-saw, she-saw, she-saw