I am straddling Marini’s horse
using the horseman’s cock as my handle
galloping in place until it comes off in my hand.

Your blood is a river from your side; tributaries
flow from your hands and feet.

The Palladian arch framing the scene
contains my grief.

It's true: I am a coward. The other night,
at dinner, I neglected to tell you how much
I detest your latest novel. Had you asked me,