Here in
sectioned

dirt, rituals
of attempted

revival.

I carry her

face, projected
on the earth,

yielding and new.

The quails tattered

by the dreamy-eyed
tomcat, the paint

pony who snapped
his own neck,

frantic and cleaving.

A dirge

in duplicate;
your love slick

and refracted.

Her ruined

blood in mine,
the only

holy thing.