Range Rovers

I spent our winter’s nights
Each in the open belly of a hamstrung horse—
Warmer when they’re kicking—
Luxurious viscera tended to my torso.

The night I cut and found a foal I said to heaven:
Here’s the uncanny metaphor for love.
I found devotion in horses’ bowels.

Some nights the convalescing dead rose up
Huddled, shook like newborn bats
I watched them tremble up to heaven
Through air frozen into ether In the sky

That winter I never saw the sign
Giving Constantine’s donation.
Later we laid ourselves in fallen drones
By light of flickering engines
Later, were Range Rovers to the Hilton
Staring down the Holy See.


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