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They reel and stumble
And cling like drunkards
Consoling each other and
Break and stagger back
Swinging wildly their black
Gloves in the golden
Light. Their arms tangle
And disentangle and then
A punch connects and it
Jolts the head back with
A snap of the vertebrae
And the skin is yellow
And the eyes flare white
Like a horse's bolting
And sweat sprays from
The blow and gives the
Fighter a halo a moment.
They flurry and throw
Wild roundhouses and
Their shorts hover above
The canvas like ghostly
Flags as they maul at
Each other and their faces
Have sunken. They seem
Shocked at each blow
And sad and as if they had
Aged.
            Frazier is tired,
And his eyes are closing.