He suplexes the man in front
of him, his arms wide enough
to grasp all of his opponent.
Both of them are in danger of
hurting themselves, their 
minds not fully wrapped around
the severity of the situation:
drug addictions, pain pill
dependencies, steroids, a divorce
notice on their front steps.
There is no god in the wrestling
ring big enough to conquer
whatever it is that compels 
these two men to invest in a
sport based around self-harm
but here it is. A pill escapes
from the villain’s gym bag.

— Poetry
 — between sand and gravel
 — (Penguin, 2019)

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