The boxer is the poet of the flesh.

Home is my mother’s voice.

Words marinate in this sweet air.

Tangle up with me like bramble. I leave marks.

Neighbors idling at property lines, smiling, bags of dogshit swinging like scrotums​.

Laugh at the storm while preparing for it.

The poet is the boxer of the soul. 

Leave nothing behind but a scent people want to keep.