Where did this pencil come from?
the poem asks. Eleven black horses
ride across its white shaft.
A pencil from the racetrack.
What words could compete with this
grace, this frenzy of jockeys,
even their whips visible &
sharper than the tip of the pencil
in this race toward the eraser.
We're riding no words today:
this pencil's built for numbers.

Gerald Fleming
Contents | Mudlark No. 3
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