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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.
Alan
Marshfield
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