As the toxic is part of a deep trance,

as the scorpion mind recoils on itself;

as contemplation must sooner or later

gape before you the same widening gulf

that to you is terror, naked and cosmic.

No one can force it, foretell the wheel’s whim,

the risk of the course, collapse of the cards,

the horrible thumping of dice in the leather,

the doom intrinsic in this havoc of bone.

All must hazard all on the race of the clock,

behold the pale rider, swinging his scythe,

in that twilight that comes to each one alone

when the one sure thing is to lose all you love.

* The Race Track, a painting by Albert Pinkham Ryder (1847–1917). While staying at Saratoga, Ryder heard of a racetrack waiter who, having lost everything on a race, subsequently committed suicide. In the painting the horse is depicted running alone clockwise.