Footballers

You were in the arms of another, or in the other?

They merged then, the eyes of coral and beads obsidian,

the feel of a soft breast in your right hand, familiar with a face

foreign yet the same Crystal from a time recast, a pace outlast

by timing unsensed. By rhymining recompense, was it wrong?

You can’t tell. The vision is murky, the hand is warm.

The alley is small, a cubby condensed? The smallness of talk.

The lightness of love, the brightness dispensed with darkening brow:

the dispersion victorious, the feeling unrequited, the Crystal darkly.

In a footballer locker, surrounded by fools. How they chortle

about nothing, about something not for you, something missing

there in the locker when the lights go out. A panic, yet not for you.

Flying away, to the shore. There it is again. The Beast, its eyes crimson

with flame, plume, smoke. A city falling, rising in smoke like incense offering.

It disappears into a purple haze, you ignore it. You have seen it lately.

You have sensed its arrival, seen its combustion with fear. You are tired.

You are swimming. You do not alert, since something so big cannot be missed,

can be remissed, cannot be dismissed: it is only for you. Then the wave

crashes over you: it is survivable. For you, perhaps not your swimming partner,

perhaps not for you as the purple spreads. You have seen it lately.

It follows you out, it reminds you of waking. Waking, you contemplate infidelity:

whose breast, whose heart? Where was it then, the discriminant element:

was it wrong?

You can tell. The vision is murky, the water was warm.

It was not the last wave, but you’ve had enough. You’ve seen it lately.

You know what comes next. They run for the shore.

The burning coast, the sunken city. The risen city, the falling city.

The second city appears and they run for the shore. The face of a devil,

the pale eyes of odd derivation on the body of a native. He runs on the shore,

he carries a boat. He runs on the shore, bringing the body to the city, the second city.

Is it for you? You were distracted: the breast, the lights, the footballers.

Where is your boat?

His is only for himself.
You are tired. You can tell. The water is clear, the vision resolved.