the wrestler

The day is shot, this dusk a struggle. The weight of beauty dissolving into time, you stretch and grasp. Clinging to each stilled moment, holding dearly every laden breath.  That hushed and sultry beauty, the sun leaving some autumn sky, a woman seeking something off at sea. Use them like they're lucky charms, use them like they staked you to your prayers. Every touch and fumble, every spell of sheer romance. They love so much the way you bleed. They love how well you have learned to fall.

I'd be the first to spell it out, though somehow it seems like cheating. Naming names and taking numbers. Tumbling at the first hint of distress. The world is the work without you. The world is just tangle, tooth, and ache. I tire of these eked out kisses. I tire of these worn-out plots. The dream delights once you take it apart. Anything makes sense when you've torn it into pieces. The trouble whether with faith or fact. The part plays you once you've got it down.

All the stars ignite, all the greens go out. The dust scuffed steps of each vague inducement. Work is a wish in the world. Direction somehow always this labor of love. This aimless act of passion, this hackneyed bit of make-believe. These sticky reasons, these slippery slopes. You always start with the rough and tumble, get your licks in in the clinch. You only follow because you know where I'm going to go. The only struggle left is letting go.