A Choir Below Me

As the roping and guy wires tighten,/a lot is said about the easy way out./On guard, they sing out about it, a tenor that brushes against their armor./Living out, an ongoing, nonstop lifetime/masking the symptom, till the arms become flaccid, /just dough, putty, muscles slackened,/along with the sounds of bones popping/a sound like you first throw a baseball/opening up with a stretch curve./Past sunset, arc lights blaze,/hem of a faded housedress bunched in a fist./I drench pink plastic bandages, in wood alcohol/taste gel on my tongue,/ the summer drinks, smiling in the light/a reckless mirror player,/why such a lover of buckshot./I open tins of biscuits, /reach for an ale, /curve my arms in awkward embrace./In a Twi-Night Double Header/a ramp leads to the glow of the lamplight./Later on, we talk the whole thing over./In a barbershop, all morning at cards,/concealed, the moves of the stretch curve./Razor scrapes the nape of the neck, ointments and salves, on the crooked patch of hotel space. A place Beiderbecke played, tones drifting above the balconies./An old geezer in suspenders/wedges between the lobby/ and two facing mirrors/ infinity’s image in vapor

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