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.