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Sport 39: 2011
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Blood clouding (by rumour) the lipped chalice,
salting (taste it!) the broad bay’s shelving off,
brimming too the victim’s eye with west’s
impending wrack, shadows silked as
te mako’s cruising, closer in by far.
Pretty much, pretty much as is,
the refrain falling as a flung stick
for a bitch’s late run morsing
the beach’s narrowing stretch,
belling vespers’
high memo, as Father once lofted
Lessons, boy, to be learned!