Greyhounds Racing

by Cody Todd

Their eloquence is no rebuttal of
the savagery. Their bodies resemble hands,

applauding the ground with each individual
gallop.

They sport colorful vests like the cigar-
smoking men who own them. If quick, like they,

then imprison a small turtle with one
of their muzzles. Gizzards and guts in rabbits—

and the race you call your life exhibits
compulsions no more ornamental than

their own. That they grin when it is over,
even if entirely so. How the one

I wanted to win lost poorly, and then sat.
And then lay down, like a Sphinx drained of arrogance

and riddles, on the racetrack. Potato sacks.
Little leapers. Sow-faced mongrels. Eyes closed

at the races, you see the movement of clouds
in the ungoverned sky, the moth-like circling

of yachts on a bay, or angels with lovably
hideous smiles, lolling tongues.




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