Alan Marshfield
Olympic
Protopopov and Belousova, a few thanks
for your Olympic love affair on ice,
flirting with levity, lifting the body up
that I thought was prodigal only in falling away.
I have never trusted grace, whether of tea-gown
or empty God’s that creeps like a disease.
But gravity is worse, sententious waddle
we go with, or converse. Even asleep
we sprawl like a puddle filling every hole.
Yet you, to cavernous Wagner on thin ice
affirm the gist of flesh round hollow laws,
skim without glutting us, spiral without spill.
That loop — did it happen? Did it? Please
don’t grow old.
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