Southpaw
Meet me there, in that quiet field
out beyond
ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing.
Bring your beautiful contempt
for the orthodox:
when we spar in that cool grass
ideas, language, even the phrase
each other
make no sense, win no meaning.
Do you think I know who I am when you
wrongfoot me?
I know less than a ball knows where it is bouncing,
and as much as this pen knows
what it is writing.
You challenge the morning breeze to count to ten
over its fallen secrets, the breeze that lets us breathe
before it’s gone.
You circle against my imagined needs, jab me awake.
Your dancing motion proves that whatever circles
comes from the centre.
Shadow box on!