Thursday, February 12, 2009


They run the length of the field
With their four shadows marking Xs
Round them.

I watch them pass, trap, juke.
I listen to the Spanish.

I don't understand,
But turn it up anyway to hear
The rise and fall of their voices.

It looks cold and wet,
But envy still bites.

I want to make such a crisp pass.
I want to run onto the ball
Perfectly riding into the open space.