The dogs sing in the wood
and I marvel at their song.

O caved-in burrow, O stench:
marriage of my betrayal.

To dress myself in woman
would be a finer sport;

a rich man would offer a gloved palm
toward the furl of my unnatural grin.

Here, I damn the mocking trees,
the man on his horse, his gloves.

Love, that you might be the silver
of a stream, the dark of a lake:

my refuge in the hunt. Or,
you might be one to drown me.