and all I know are the seventy manes
found in autumn’s good graces:

chestnut, auburn, coal, ash.
And all the tiny hairs fall

on my jeans and collarbone.
I arrange them on a pillow.

Still, I hear only hooves.
Still, I am disappointed

with how I weave his body
back into this bed. Never again

shall I gather oleander and wool
with crochet hooks. Never tie

nettles with corn silk and soak
the mixture in wax and milk.

The heart tumbles until it splits
from yes. It is lonely

in this body, and I need
to find the best way out.