your mustache became your

mouth's permanent hibernation--

"Thus Spoke Zarathustra"

no more.

your brows fell down on your

cartoonishly crossed eyes, fighting

to get a last good look at you.

as if a cradle's starry

revolutions counted you out.

your snowed in smock neatly tucked

in for posterity.

your sister's doting hands trailing off.

to where that mare waited in a flurry of

blows--so it could saddle your mind.