From the Bluff

I get the utility here. I mean,
I get it as much as I can get it,
from a distance, from this high
remove, perched here, safely,
it seems, above the fray. I feel
none of the rush of play, none
of the neurochemical surge of
the art of it, the game of it. So
slow, so thick, my humours,
vein slugs, vulnerable to birds
of prey. And yet, I imagine it:
the squaring off, the refusal to
look away, the hell-if-I-know
knocked together with the no-
holds-barred instinct to Stay.
Alive. I get the necessity of it,
the absolute inevitability of
the fight on this turf, on these
terms. But I'm tired, tired of
these stakes, these methods—
tired of this game, useful as it
is, here. I long for a longer
game, one veering off toward
infinity. So I raise my gaze to
the horizon, the ever-elusive
edge of sight, the realm of
eternal possibility. I get that.