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Sport 37: Winter 2009

It Was Onward and Upward

It Was Onward and Upward

It was onward and upward,
the wall was green outside and I did not think
I would look at it again.

In the mellow depths of caramel
the day was draining slowly, we were
still walking by the waterside,
the big ship still
sailing in to collect.

If the debt were not a debt
but forgiven
I would go less, I would be
less a curtain pulled across the window.

In medias res, the collation, cold and elegant
caught us as we lifted it to our heads
to bite, to swallow.

I will not be back, I said, I came back early.
I'll be leaving I said, taking a seat,
sitting down to bread and salt and a talk with my mother.

If memory serves—but it does not, only
whistles and scratches like a branch against the wall.

If it serves, if it falters, the wall was coloured,
or clear as glass, strained thin by heat and thinking, by the ritual
of a cat, checking the position of fence, washing pile, a leg
known to belong to its owner.