Knots form behind the breath
and feel like death.
There isn’t a clock
in the room to take a look at.
Mismatched opponents taking all
their shots one after the other
behind the blocks
and all the fences where they stop to
Rewind the tapes and see for yourself
how they delivered them. Hands taped
in positions of prayer, in front of their
chests, preventing them from catching
themselves if they stumbled. When
they did they often scraped their teeth
against the sand.
There are demands at every angle for
a sweeping justice. The kind that makes
the trees die and some kids interrupt us.
The wheels on the cars in the numbered
parking spaces are flat down to their rims,
and remind people walking by how
little ground they could actually cover
if they tried to run.
Still nothing’s done without the final moment.
A last stand in the farthest corner of the oldest map.
Where great humans of the past became more
than they were, and lifted everything on the back
of their remembrance.