I throw my hands at
the boxing shade before me.

If I were a rich man
I’d hire a champion
as it’s too large a challenge,
I tell myself.  

I am
far from rich, like most
just drifting  through,
and these hands
I used to depend on
don’t clench right
for that work — 
not anymore.  Not sure
they ever did.  

I swing on
the vaporous.  I am 
bound to lose, but not yet,
I tell myself;

that time
I connected  —
I felt its mist on my skin
as I passed through
and for once that was revival
more than icy warning.

Having flurried at the hands:

were they snow,
were they vapor,
were they something else?
I have lost touch
with what I’m assumed
I’ll connect with.

I’m comfortable for now,
but wait.  

Just wait.