Prizefighter

Rage is a vector, the body a matrix
of fists in a serial montage of intercalary
bruises. Exhaustion accretes as a discrete
asset, divides the audience in two factions:
one craves the end, the other’s gaze
capitulating after witnessing sufficient
damage. When the victor stands,
when the money changes hands
and the animal grins appear
defused of symbolic lust, then the fighters
dissolve and waft through the ropes
into clouds of handlers, medics, clergy,
the crowd’s voices precipitate
from the perspiration spilled
on the bloody relics of gloves.