between dusk and dawn, between two poles where the world begins to sag.
after a short nap, the umpire is struck a deft blow on the ear and cries out, less out of pain or grief than in the name of vague generalisations: the importance of good footwear, the ball’s newness every so many games, the sound of a racket lashing chain link fence, the plocking sound of vulcanised rubber on taut
this is jean shrimpton all over again, and they say romance is dead.
ReplyDeletetonight the boxing poet was counted out flat on his back.
in a dream i'm fiddling with wires: red, yellow, blue. i'm looking helplessly around.
ReplyDeletebehind me the piccolos, full of trills like little birds, a piecing scream before i switch the thing off.