My body has never been my body.
It has been a bucket of asphalt
upside down in the puerile wind.
My horse faltered at the finish line.
I whipped it and it plunged forth,
like froth on the crest of a wave.
My horse is my body: my body,
my horse. Slick flank, waxen
hair—do not bother to do
the math. My mouth is full
of epithet; my horse is fat
and tame. Touch me.
Now is the heroic age.