after losing a thick-armed struggle
with others gleefully unlike me

I am overthrown and then
as I am laid out by blows

upon dirt and scrub lawn
I stare up at sky of bruise-hue

in early dusk and imagine
I will rise at first slit of sun

on horizon 
this view is called hope and

is a bane of those
with whom I struggle 

their thick arms no match
for that sliver of sun

which prompted a belief
of potential resurgence

in a beaten skull
and soul