Buffeted by the roar
they run sidelong to the raw spot
the ice under Sunday feet tempts the fall
but holding steady they
look the anti-hero in the eyes
each. several. pore.
They know the smell of the forearm, the navel, the mouth
an inch is not given
but a subtle sigh
of the field
they hold in protest
between lovers bodies
the magnetic one, the mine one, the playing one–
(the history older than light or sound, where language began, where heat was discovered and gills grew. Where breath was sucked first)
–that binds the space they occupy.
Jaws hold tight, fists secure in woolen pockets, they are WINNING. Holding tight. Not an inch. Not one.
The crafty wind bellows too hard, though.
It pushes, cracks the moment, shoves
headlong, laughs in the wash of tired
They fall suddenly, with clamorous equivocation, gravid with stones
(the rain, a comedic metronome)
the inevitable rejoinder
into the puzzle pieces they unwillingly are, laggard
as they close ferocious,
and with premeditated lamentation
masticating mouths the substance of fire.
the slightest silk,
the most meager of archangels,
they return to that.
A parley, they knew. They’ve known.
But the comfort was all,