by Cody Todd
Their eloquence is no rebuttal of
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the savagery. Their bodies resemble hands,
applauding the ground with each individual
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.