(in memoriam William Empson, 1906-1984)
It takes a team of five for each.
Of whom the fifth is fist and word ;
the quartet grunting at the breach
and bossy Five pretending to be heard.
One is devoted to the tongue
and hugs the heavy hugging canvas
like Tarquin devoted to the madness
that will leave his hostess brilliantly stung.
Two, Three, and Four lean and vise
their padded gloves to lift the lip
in rounded, knees-locked, tandem grip.
Weight the enemy ; space the prize.
Something not quite visible spells
its alternate breath between them.
Faith, or fear, or experience tells
whose ox is gored, which diadem
to polish, which to hoist, or set
aside for a later moment’s buff.
A chariot for a jewel-box, the bells let
rest in solid air, the dream-stuff
of imagining the filmic sky, shattering
wide as a sheet of glass,
the stars like crumbs scattering,
to skelter first toll and last.