Bare skin on dampened green,
arms pendent and the heavy,
near-sighted swing
of dull metal in the pit.

As I loosely ready myself
for another miss,
you call me an anarchist -

the word rouses
me, and I try it on,
gingerly checking
for fit, style and colour.

And yet

I haven't had the time -
or the ruthless abandon -
to learn and befriend it,
to humour and then
ignore it.

No, I haven't had

the time - something I know
we both measure
in cups and baking spoons -

brash spoons sound
anxiety and precision,
or the death-knell clang
of hollowed metal on sand.