At least, you answered
the bell for the first.
Billions don't.
Yet until that first knockdown
you weren't even aware
of the Opponent's presence
And so you've been permitted a few rounds
by turns toddling, gawky, deluded,
pathetically hopeful,
Tired. The Opponent
Toys with you
between hurts, and waits his pleasure,
the age-old one of spilling your guts
and gouging out your eyes. Waits
to smack you a thousand
unanswered blows
The Opponent knows all the tricks
for he invented them. You'll
be overwhelmed by a flurry
of hooks and jabs and double
Crosses. The combinations
are impeccable, the
sucker punch inevitable. Soon,
Soon enough begins
the blind ref's numbers,
The long count from which
there's been no rising.
And all the while,
the girls with the Roundcards parade,
marking time in long legs
and balloon breasts
of crumbling flesh.
There were more drinks, returning
I didn't know what they were saying
It was afternoon before we got back
Two old men dragged part of a whale carcass
along a street of Copenhagen apartment houses
Beyond them in clear blue harbour waters
were skulls of icebergs
On a hill in back of Nuuk
I came upon a wedding
The Inuit bride and groom waved
from wooden steps in a blizzard
of rice and confetti.
At the back of the church were green
hills, dark greenland hills, planted
with white crosses, that rolled
all the way down
to the sea