A Garden Variety Materialism

Two wooden horses.
Think of that.
Two of them.
Two.
Made out of wood.
Who would do this, to wood?
That particular type of wood.
From a tree.
Said tree doubtless felt pain.
Which ended thus
In the forms of these two.
One horse and then another.
The two of them together.
Two wooden horses.
And their likeness,
Especially their likeness.
Outstanding, this likeness.
To each other, of course to each other  
But also to horses, a horse, the
Perfect horse.
A horse of meat and bone,
Neighing, shitting.
That one.
Different from these.
The two.
The two of them.
Think of that.
Two wooden horses that maybe do nothing or
Maybe do no more than stare at you.
A miracle stare.
Because they are wooden horses.
Because they are neither quick nor dead. 
Because they refuse the apple-bits in your hands.
Two wooden horses.
On my desk.
Did I tell you that already?
That they are here, before me,
Right on my desk.
Like two scullers.
Gliding in weird mist
On the River Arno.
In Florence,
Where the Uffizi is.
Ciao.