Was it halfway up Fifth Ave. I caught that whiff
of sinus-clearing manure from some Soho-
born hack's blindered ride—never mind the spiffy

top hat, plastic champagne flutes, the courtly bow—
that made me see me: age six and unseen (so me thinks)
at Quinn's farm, all attention locked on how

that white horse's shit steams and stinks
as it sinks into that white snow?