Summer 1980 • Vol. II No. 3 Four Poems , Poetry |

Bjorn

He's brutal, smacks of the Norseman, named for a bear. His smile's in hibernation; rumor of fangs. This day of the blow drier and sculpted hair- Cut, his strands are just plain long, bangs Askew. Rumpled, scratching a crust through wisps Of beard, in clogs and bags, musky, a tale Told by a misfit, the champion sits and sits. One thinks of futures, those Howard Hughes nails. At center court, immaculate at Wimbledon, The fancy Dans are falling, swatted away. Borg is back, puts pressure on like tons. He brings his grip up slowly and bows, thumb To nose at all things civil; stretches, and what comes Is primitive, ruinous art. He slams an ace.

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Miler

By William Burns

He's brutal, smacks of the Norseman, named for a bear. His smile's in hibernation; rumor of fangs. This day of the blow drier and sculpted hair- Cut, his strands are […]

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