I have no heart, she cries. I am driving her madder,
Out of her depth, almost, in the tall grass
Of Parsons’ triangular meadow.
Because I straddle some old jackass

Whose every hoof curves like the blade
Of a scythe. It staggers over
Towards a whitethorn hedge, meaning to rid
Itself of me. Just in time, I slither

Off the sagging, flabbergasted back.
To calm a jackass, they say, you take its ear like a snaffle
Between your teeth. I bite her ear and shoo her back
Into the middle of my life.