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The swift one, that sleek and powerful    dog,
the hunter of the steppe   wolf.
You can still see them on Fifth     Avenue
and along Park, tethered to   women,
whose own elegant frames are    glancing
in store windows, as they race
a haute couture blur of   mannequins.
Sometimes, through a cast-iron     fence
or a row of boulevard trees, these     dogs glimpse
an expanse of grass, and the     muscles ripple
inside their flanks, a thwarted  and ingrown
orgasm Poised as they are, forever posed,
about to spring forward, if   only to run down
the shadow of a crow passing   over the ground.

Sold Into Egypt

At first you believed you could live through
this, survive in their midst without being   changed.
The mind a pure pool of rainwater, nothing
could disturb. Not by fall of leaf, nor frog   plop
against the still surface of your most   resolute state.
But the tribute they exact seeps ever so   slowly
out of the skin, each pore giving up a   single grain
of salt, shining like a diamond. They take   your flesh,
hand on the shoulder, cupping your balls, & mold
it in a manner suitable to their needs. They   dress you
in fine suits. Don’t slump, posture has   purpose, strike
a pose that commands respect. You walk down   corridors
of oaken plush, past landscapes and the   still life
paintings of Old Masters dimly lit under the   hoods
of brass lamps. Taught to damn by silence
or a steady gaze: This one stays, this one   out.
And the things you hear yourself say,
you never thought would so easily pass
your lips. The spit in your mouth   become acid.
But worst of all is what you hear yourself   think.
That nothing matters, that no one is   watching.
The clear pool gone stagnant,   greenish—leaves lining
the bottom, a muck of decomposing bills.   Small insidious
things breeding in those shallows. Each one   another
you, gasping for air, rising to claim its   share.