The boxer glistens, kidney punching, on the screen,
shadow boxing, kissing, tasting life.
I’m on the couch, tied to the couch, watching marionettes
passing along the screen, as I sip beer,
chew peanuts, stroke the back of an imaginary dog.
If you’d been an angel, you’d have sung to me,
forbidden songs, in forbidden tongues,
bid me to follow, turn
pass up into the sun.
I cannot stop glancing at the screen,
the shadows marching across,
bearing urns, all sorts of vessels, statues
and figures of animals made of wood and stone and various materials.
Some of them are silent – they frighten me the most.
My neck hurt when I turned it, the light
hurt, you beckoning me up, singing in tongues.
Talking. Always talking.
But there was a show on, a boxer
hitting shadows, and I am with him,
not you.
I am never with you.
Writer Moe 