Velvet and shit: I summoned it
and come it did. The horses’ flanks
are rank with sweat and flies and I
remember you between my legs
achieving for an hour or so.
We parted on the best of terms:
the sweet unsayable loss that’s gain
in drag. The day hurt a little
brighter for all that sharpening.
I have a turnstile heart; it opens
madly and shuts just so.
In morning cold, the horses’
breath takes on the shape of terrible
blooms. The hoof-stamps sound less
urgently. I’m not talking about my heart.