Enumclaw Farm

Two friends trespass
through the foggy farm
of Enumclaw; the whinny of the Dun
they had not yet mounted.
O, Dusky,
how his calloused hands would reach
to grip your bridled mass.

You did not let him open
your skin to his perversions.
The night became your screaming, your
kick became his death.

O, James Tait,
did you see, inside
the dying eyes of Jake,
a picture of yourself behind
a warm young Chestnut Gelding?