Nestor
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. 
Copyright © 2004–2017 Memorious