[Mister Saint]: 79.Poetry.Watching the whispers

A 'specific experience with natural imagery' poem for class. Can't wait to see the professor rip this up.

"Watching the Whispers"

Watching the whispers,
white specters curling
from ceiling to carpet
to concrete and back,
I breathe crisps of ice.

The ring is a pool room,
a chlorinated cave,
the sensei Italian,
roughened and snapping
commands like the yap of a jackal
in time with the thunder outside.

“Fight!”
and I step to the eye of a storm
in the center of the room
with the chlorine and concrete
and whispers.
In the center our dancing and jabbing
and hooking and cutting
are mutual, peaceful,
punches thrown thick as the frost in my lungs.
Crackling plats at the edge of the roof;
the rain pissing razors,
the clouds ripping open;
we fight in the eye of the storm
where all of the violence is not.