When Manny Pacquiao sprained

 

the noise jamboree in toda terminals4, our regular Sunday

afternoon scared the neighbourhood children for seeing blood

 

drip from his head, all the force and feeling swam to the floor,

parents cried, and street by arcane street the whole town

 

buried the fear in its throat, freezing the clock to stop the hurt

of tropical error; that loss was the injured sound of an engine

 

failing to drive families to church, to a nearby shop after mass.

I’ve felt my skin fumble when I heard a song from the speaker

 

of a passing car, a very familiar song I could remember

in the instance of a straight punch combination made possible

 

by retirement, as winning, according to critics, shouldn’t be

compressed on a tiny screen. Whatever that means—

 

the boxer breaks the mirror of the modern man, comes down

to realize why the future is unhomed by a heterotopia of hurt.