Currying the Fallow-Colored Horse

And to the curious I say, Don’t be naïve. The soul, like a trinket, is a she. I lay down in the tweed of one man that first frost night. I did not like the wool of  him. You have one mitochondrial speck of evidence on your cleat. They can take you down for that. Did I forget to mention that when you’re dead You’re dead a long time. My uncle, dying, told me this when asked, Why stay here for such suffering. A chimney swift flits through the fumatorium. I long for one last Blue democracy, Which has broke my heart a while. How many minutes have I left, the lover asked, To still be beautiful? I took his blond face in my hands and kissed him blondly On his mouth.