Dumb Luck
The horse—its number smudgedby sweat and thumbs nuzzling predictable exactasstamped in black—stumbles at the last, run too hard, runbeyond what her ankles could bear, and the jockey, who’d drivenher ahead…
Actaeon’s Hounds
And then I wasn’t myself anymore. A heavinessbranched from my head, not like thought, or worry, but solid, forcing upward, pressing against my brow,wedging itself between me and the world.…
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