Far back in our dark soul the horse prances.
D.H. Lawrence

I praise my lady's thighs
Her rhythmic breasts exposed
In amber streetlight strobe
When a writer friend arrives

And she alone drives in
To greet him at the train
And they dismiss the rain
And pass a flask of gin

And she lets drop her soul
As they plunge through the night
Immersed in the pulsing light
To a depth beyond control

While the plump assistant cook
Flutters about my plate
And the wisp of an upstairs maid
Featherdusts my hood.

[First published in Calapooya Collage]