Nobody told me how much stronger my hands are
than I anticipated; I have been composed for
so long that I underestimated the weight of the cricket bat
I used to drive the ball away with on the dry ground
near my house every evening. I can smell the perspiration
on the handle. I thrust it firm against my chest dead centrally
where under the skin and flesh my ribs meet and damn the beat
was so good that I couldn't help persisting; made a fist
with my right hand and beat it hard where the bat struck,
and suddenly I'm moving like a streetcar with its jerky clanging act,
bam and the edge of November bam and the duality of breath
bam and the corrective range of tears and bam and the pressure
of reddening spots and bam and bam drop of bam you bam assurance bam a space feud bam a rivalry bam of delicacies bam he's back and bam bam bam bam sneaky tom who goes there bam parched bam pissed bam oh death oh stop oh word oh letter oh fruit oh seed oh diesel oh Rayban eyes oh bam oh bam oh bam oh canon fodder that is true and oh bam oh bam oh bam oh bam a civil service due to be silent,
to be quiet.
I know, hey. I know. Sleeping well and good.
Well, well. I'm sorry it took so long.