In something heavier than a dream and less populated than a memory I ate horsemeat...The smell, the crackled brazen skin and brown flesh; and the odor, my oily fingers. Gulping wine came with the territory, that digesting of a comrade, providing closure for a hunt. A later impression (from the middle ages of eight-year old fantasy) flattered horses. It was not an apology, but an infatuation with the gallop. My heart given a certain horse beat, forever. The hunter now had a sense of a horse's intrinsic worth, partially catalyzed by toy pony cravings and an appropriated dolphin religion; a vision of deep turquoise and perplexing blues carried into the wind, enlivening the rider & introducing jouissance. Saddles struck the secular me as temples; learning the posture of power. Much later, teenage inquisitions, on a cheap internet site, introduced the idea of a man having sex with a dolphin. I recoiled. And in history class we learned of Catherine the Great, sexing with horses. I flinched. I hate the slow grey ones. I collected the skins of the black stallions and golden mares. They were perfect. I named them and fantasized ranch life. Boredom never exists. Often, when Peter, Johannes, Phillip, watch me ride they see the limits of their intimacy; the horse and girl become a portrait; untouchable, pure, and away. The away makes later erotica at the homestead--Falling back to human flesh, protecting muscles, and biting at ears. The flat hands that held sugar cubes now dance on bodies like demonic flies, stirring pleasure's tail, that impromptu whip. In an airport, a Paris Vogue awakens an equestrian aesthetic. Cowboy boots cramp New York's trendy streets. Fetish seems like memory, muscular and immortalizing.