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No motor, so a man must run,
each hand on a horsey back, driving forward
the stable. There is no other
stallion. His slow son mans the post
by the music (fast
then faltering) and doles the golden rings.
Every rider a girl, lifting
her wooden sword. Winner
one round, bereft the next. The bravest
stand up in their stirrups.
The horses, hound-small, hold a mid-
stride pose. Spun confections of sucre blanc
and chocolat becoming unblurred.

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