30:30 2014, Day 23

Cento for Wrigley Field

The art of losing isn't hard to master. That corpse
you planted last year in your garden, now the grass,

tomorrow I’ll be back, I'll re-emerge, defeated,
from the valley. The game enforces smirks; but

we have seen that we must labour to be beautiful.
Let the lamp affix its beam. The band is playing

somewhere. Beauty is truth, truth beauty--that's
that shit I don't like.