Hymn

That quality of the great boxers

to be able to stand there

and take shots,

gargle with firewater,

encounter intoxication

at sub- and supra-atomic levels,

to leave one’s sandals at the crater’s lip

like Empedocles, and descend,

not say: I’ll be back,

not think: fifty-fifty,

to vacate molehills

when dwarves want space to grow,

to dine alone,

indivisible,

and able to renounce your victory—

a hymn to that man.