It's behind, the player dives,
hurtling toward lime, dust, bones, crawling in line, linked by never-ending sinews. But they end at rest, the play dead, driven to rest by time and defensive posture, standing opposed to life, health. And then it does end, and passes quickly, time that stops only briefly for players to done apologies - to health and breath - though magnificent athletes, vulnerable to drive, to hurry exits, plays reminding one of near death - at least for careers bounding to life. It's another play, another time out for motors arriving, sorry to provide perfect traffic in and out, with directors waiting, slowly death crawls outside boundaries - yards, goals, to breath again for another, for more muscle, ligaments - we'll need plenty of those - healthy need only apply. Behind, yet blind to danger, were it to be faced, to be deflected, aware of the tremor, the arched earth, the goal posts - the defense - careless with connecting tissue - but brief and thin lines drawn across arcing fields, easy to run the sidelines, the escape - so hard, so crucial that time. © 2013 Larry Ingram
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Welcome to the poetry web site of Larry Ingram. Larry is a poet, writer and observer of our culture. Categories
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