Fizz Ed

Reflections on Watching Physical Therapists at “Metrosports”

Life experienced entirely as physical seems quizzical –
but sometimes absolutely right: the muscled stuff
that can be engineered and measured, demonstrated,
named: claimed now by several buff straight guys
providing arms-and-hands-on coaching – therapy to bodies

variously compromised and mildly lame – in somatic need
of a specific strong solicitude – these several dudes who
otherwise come through to life, presumably, in gyms, team
games on fields – who, as a first resort, comport themselves
in sport – wield bodies in symbolic fight and flight –

release a feast of brawn, reflex and expertise which seethes
in its bright self-created realm – at rest, they stand inchoate
and self-conscious, gently flexing neck and shoulder
muscles in mute maleness: overwhelmingly, it seems,
a sense of something central in the mammal breathes

inside this brotherhood of athletes in sweat socks. Yet
something flaming and unnamable about them shocks –
sparkles like the fizz of stars: some stark enigma
blazes – Apollo shoots forth in his mystery – unspeakably,
inevitably blessed. Word is never quite made flesh.

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