Round

I rattle over the pebbled streets,
brittle as slated iron, free, my skin
brushed by summer's electric breath,
like a finger stroking hair.

In helix, towards the roar of crowd
I dance, around pink men and women
crushed together, like salmon
in a salt-box of air.

I am free, wide armed in meadows
of red flowers, tasting
the ions of re-entry,
white hot with terror's ecstasy.

There he is, my mark.
I will kill him soon.
His blood will cool my shattered
core, his river pulsating around me

to baptise my death inside numbered game.
Soil to soil from which we came.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.