the old life
in almost every kind of light
his forearms mimic
the skin of a snake about to slough
or a paper-bag used too many times
wrinkle-thin
about to crack
wide open
yet
it teases at a capacity for something else
as if waiting to be filled
with what
all that’s left are memories
of the cross-court forehand winners
played on ice-pocked university courts
that one majestic in-swinger
pilfering the off-stump bail
like a slick-fingered thief
of wrapping her in an embrace
he thought would never end
in the darkness
he dreams those things again
almost as if the skin had split
and released him
back into a life once loved
Ian Gouge - Writer 