changing pitch

 

four beers in
things a little ragged down back
and up forward

 

 

winter frost yawning cracks in the back half

 

 

Beams unsighted the moon hiding in the clouds

 

 

needing a goal
from anywhere
Thomas from nowhere

 

 

back in it
the crowd’s noise
changes pitch

 

wellinghamagro

 

 

swirling leaves
the fallen player
comes to

 

too late
the out-of-sorts full-forward
slots one

 

 

mid-winter
after a crushing loss
darkness swallows the ‘G

 

 

drowning sorrows
slowly my game face
slides off

 

 

thumped again
the small mercy
of this distance