Improv: Marks' "Dumb Luck"

My Ophelia with an itch sings, all the notes

a tad sharp, and wins. The line goes rifling
down into the carved rocks of southern KY,

the minefield we used to crawl through. When

the seasons change, we remove our clothes
but not all, and say people contain glory,

prose, all words living with us. But what
about the horse that won't rise,
what about his decayed meat? I have named
you, the horse, and your tomato. Dry me off

please.