In the post-dolcelatte, pre-delta wave lull,
he sees footballs big as hayricks
approach over a pitch of endless blue.
They whisper like voles under sackcloth.
He watches the centre-forward topple,
go under, an entire inverted Christmas tree
into its bulging latitudes.
He sees seas and continents turn;
he leaves his mark, the whiff of sod
acrid in his flaring nostrils.
He holds his gloves up; they are withered
as budget burgers on a griddle.
The stanchions fall into shadow.
He backs away, the ball before him,