on fire at the wedding, poor goat.
there was nothing to be done for that hair
nor tights itching your coarse fur.
they tried to teach you, the catalog
of grace is fingers
lead arms. nothing for your little hooves
they killed you
fur-first. you beast
the unruly library
of beauty; Alexandria
you unmighty hips
you runaway flames. you feet clop-clopping on the ground