This salt-stain spot <br />marks the place where men <br />lay down their heads, <br />back to the bench, <br /> <br />and hoist nothing <br />that need be lifted <br />but some burden they've chosen <br />this time: more reps, <br /> <br />more weight, the upward shove <br />of it leaving, collectively, <br />this sign of where we've been: <br />shroud-stain, negative <br /> <br />flashed onto the vinyl <br />where we push something <br />unyielding skyward, <br />gaining some power <br /> <br />at least over flesh, <br />which goads with desire, <br />and terrifies with frailty. <br />Who could say who's <br /> <br />added his heat to the nimbus <br />of our intent, here where <br />we make ourselves: <br />something difficult <br /> <br />lifted, pressed or curled, <br />Power over beauty, <br />power over power! <br />Though there's something more <br /> <br />tender, beneath our vanity, <br />our will to become objects <br />of desire: we sweat the mark <br />of our presence onto the cloth. <br /> <br />Here is some halo <br />the living made together.<br /><br />Mark Doty<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/at-the-gym/
