How Borges felt about hexagons

is how I blꚙdfell horses. Though they are lost

the moment I begin to skun

them, I could never ask for another

kind of music. The horses I choose

never listen to the horses I’ve become,

& just when I get close, all change direction.

& astronomically.

& I’m trying to love a little

cruelly. & I'm trying.

To love simply, but when I open myself,

the horses go mute & breathless. I roast their bones for supper, spill their blꚙd

as wine

upon the heavens. Believe me, when I blꚙdfell myself

upon the bloody pulp of this page,

I've loved each & every & it was always real.

But the horses it has cost me,

the grooves in my heart

this has sealed.

*

Let’s not skin a horse & wear it together.

Elsewhere I have to say no. Elsewhere I can't stand

the magma plume of death::orse

pooling us against

each other—

Like moonhorsen awakened too early under the skin of the artic.

Elsewhere there’s no more song of how far you'd go

to covet & flay

the :: wildUnplace ::

{of its AntiHorseSpace}—

Here you'd kiss the mezuzah & skin the horses from my breath.

Elsewhere I exhale the little graces & skun a home

just as fortune hunters arrive with first snow.

All we hear are weary horses within weary door.

To not skin will make us thin & mutinous

—& the horse is many & you

won’t let me go, or leave

this elegy alone

& on the loose,

with bloody teeth

& bloody hooves—

I'm no perfect moon, with perfect swell,

but polar gravity drunk on the spell

of purple mountains laurels—

Elsewhere a single raven is circles

intertwining us both & you

inhale

me

as if your spoils

to impale & expose—

& all that's left to hear

are bloody horses

snared in bloodied year—

:

:

Here you grace the mezuzah & lead horses

away from my breath

Here you can't skin home

without calling us

::Death::—  

 & I say no

to phantasm of farmstead :: longhouse :: box-bed

I’ll drink no more from wicked chalice

stolen straight from two-faced lips

nor hang

map :: portrait :: parchments

to cover all the doors

broken in your head—

only for the sulfur clouds of Venus

where a single day is longer than its year

would I give {this skin}

I'd endure the frozen side of Mercury

& breathe the gas rings of Saturn

if it meant I could return to you

the kind of darkness in which nothing survives

until it skuns

some new planet

right here

in this solar system—

a cold

{cold}  

distant no one

has seen it

as you'd tell it

an army of bloody hooves skunning curious &

crimson

as if my death had never not risen