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Sport 39: 2011
Dressing the ghost
Dressing the ghost
Of course his clothes don’t fit
no longer even look like him
and the blue light doesn’t suit
whatever tone it is his skin
still keeps. Armour him now,
glove him in chainmail, kit him
in something that clanks
and masks the terrible
thin wight within and
doesn’t mock his former
fuller self the way his old shirts
and pants now do with their whispering
threadbare gestures, their dull-
eyed buttons hanging limp
on wilted stalks. They have lost
their character, no wonder
they lie, resentful, being left
behind. Armour him now,
so we won’t detect the final
disappearing act until
page 193
too late—he’s slipped
behind the arras, out
to the graveyard and
under the stone
flowing like smoke
into a signature that could
be anyone’s, imprinted
by the mason’s hand, our
common dress code.
Read the script.