Scoring in Injury Time is about endings. It is likely the last collection of poetry that will be published by the distinguished poet, Francis Sparshott. Autumnal images of geese and derelict buildings haunt these poems, though Sparshott also takes the time to make some pointed social commentary. These are poems in a minor key, punctuated with occasional bright bits of satire. But in the end you are left with the image of man who will "sit at my desk and warm/what is left of your hand in mine."
By Rice Lake
They buried their child
in dirt, under a low mound
by the river, and left. Years turned
as the years will, a thousand, a thousand more
went quietly by, and the river
kept quiet, munching shore
till its mild appetite came
where the child kept her cradle.
On the beach one morning I found
a fine fingerbone, kept it
in a drawer with the sealing wax
and pointless pencils. I've lost
my work and emptied my desk.
It is still there in the dark,
one end blackened with ink
from a leaking ballpoint. Come,
dear heart, it is late
to reach your hand up for my own to hold.
There is only a stained
bone. It is all we have.
I will sit at my desk and warm
what is left of your hand in mine.
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