pugilism

Charlie’s gone for now – stunned as I am

to be introduced to an old man in

an attic, not the gutter-drunk pugilist you know –

this turpitude some sad joke from

a sick movie

I couldn’t do that sort of easy breeze –

he’d say I hadn’t found an edge, the

next-bottle focus of a consumption

that spurred him through all the

hovels and whores and walk-aways –

comfort kills that grit, I’m begging to

see

words obscure words, a shower of noise

in a sea of thoughts, scraping at your

brain, moths tonight set to

sizzle before they soar.