He waits perpetually crouched, teeth,
tongue, raw knuckles, tattooed muscles
bunched under his hide like clouds,
taking and taking and taking until
the right moment tears his eyes open,
his arm, like a lover's curse, snakes
swiftly out to second eating the silky
air of the proudest runner, ending the game.
Hummers, Knucklers, and Slow Curves
Edited by Don Johnson
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