bleachers

The sky will grow very tall, 
opening up
to the arena battlefield 
of skies filled with warring stars.

Below, you stand on the cold tarmac, 
drunk off domination
and the slick of cooling blood on your track suit, 
velvet against the frothing silver sky.

The fields flicker between tenses,
refusing to settle your choice
for a godlike moment of purity,
before launching your body
into an orbit of vindication,
Full of whipping clouds and sharp air ice.

In the bleachers, the vessel lay, 
evenly bathed in the white light,
angelic and still, 
a broken hubris floating 
between soda bottles and pizza plates
That you hadn't a mind to see.

The hollow tunnel vision of your bleak form,
Trailing jagged entrails hooked on clawed feet,
Was not blind to beauty
Comfortable in the knowledge that 
without this there would be nothing.