I wonder how much longer
it'll dance, this
welterweight welter age
old soma, will feel the hunger
of fists to kiss
jawbone or rib-cage;

of brow, shoulder and arm
to shrug off blows
and slide in or in-under
for the short snap that does harm —
as far as it goes
with gloves that weigh a pound or

more and are filled with fluff.
It is the dance.
Precious little blood runs.
The symbol's dire enough:
two hierophants
of Ares, now at one's

rhythm, now at the other's,
gambling on speed. —
Which God preserve, and I'll
deal charitably with my brothers,
all of whom need
some violence, and some style.