For we know what intelligence is hidden
            –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. 
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