Thursday, 5 April 2012

Adam Goodes

The leather hurts, when it hits, cold hands, now give her
off left or right if you’ll let the great liver
live on its terms — not an avatar of you
in all your pride, but flowing fast, the river
over which players lay them down.  Likewise through
so many windows of opportunity flew
my spirit, when spirits across the ritual grass
were low, when heads were bowed, for then I knew
it would come, spearing, as from nowhere – at last
this sparkling moment! – I alone, this pass
is fate, and you are teammate, umpire, child
opposed, or maybe spectator.  This green farce
is all your footy.  Thus the creative are wild
with longing: forward, leading the cruel and the mild.

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