Spotted veteran of love,
you were made for fucking.
Wooing the mare with a tender nuzzle,
you rub her nether petals
till they open
pink and dewy as a magnolia,
before you climb aboard
and set your hips a-bucking.
I see your white hide crawl,
black rosettes shudder
(like a scoopful of coal
dropping through snow),
and come alive
at the snort of your sunburnt nose,
your sweetbags twitching
peppery as stars.
If only I could have
the blunt fury of your limbs,
yowl and pump
like a desperado,
feel the sun on my neck
burning old as a motto,
then life coming,
the wheat spellbound in the fields.