Testament to his former trade, irregular ticks
and pulses work the flatiron cheek, the jaw;
burst blood vessels crawl across a nose
all flattened putty and displaced bone.
A toy tin-whistle sounds when he breathes.
Chin tucked in, sinews of the leading arm stretched,
his left glove flashes towards Patterson’s temple.
Only the artist caught the champion uncertain–
shrieks of azure, vermillion–
two gods sparring in the heavens.
Twinge rattles his jabbing hand, carpals recalling
derelict basement clubs, closing-time car parks.
Optics mirror shatters and Harry stares back multifold,
each slivered reflection raising an amber glass.
Desolate shoes on their brass rest twitch.
On Marlborough Street, all the stars
of the universe ignite the midnight sky;
a magnesium-flash of ringside cameras.
The crowd in disjointed waves urge Harry up,
embracing the ground like his own opponent.
Sirens fade. The bar-room mural’s found
by a constant sweep of headlights
traipsing the wall through bare curtains:
Harry’s nose unbroken, right eye uncut,
the fight still there for the taking.
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