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Sport 39: 2011
iv
page 55
iv
A wet wind rumours the macrocarpa
proposing nothing but itself.
A branch cracks.
A bird’s damp flut. Light
talks through rain.
Much as pyramids,
as duomos, up to the same lurk, wind
urging on,
the instant barked to heel.
‘Maestro
to the pit’ as they call at the Met,
awaiting the beat, assuming il mundo
magnifico’s scoring, delivering time.