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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