The dizzying post-adrenaline ecstasy
Of collapsing, falling out of my head
Into a golden trophy feather bed,
and I have, on many of them, known
defeat,
Exhausted rage soured by finality,
The feeling that I have only run out of
time,
But, of course, the game wouldn't last
my whole life.
Most foreign to the world's American
corner,
I know the flavor of sweet, iron
surrender,
That baseball bat wrapped in silk,
The better and the worse for being a
path I chose myself.
It always tastes like blood in my
mouth.
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