Nestor
For we know what intelligence is hidden
–iii. 18
–iii. 18
Throat rubbed raw from my violin, I pay in quarters at the track and grip the painted railing —win!—level with shivering horses pounding the terra-cotta dirt: running, running, wet stones around the bend, then animals snorting and gasping, then forms the churning surf allows almost dry in the hair, in the water, in the flush of recall.