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we’re back again for testing and a psychometric probe
at just the time we had unwound, drifting
beyond the training app’s regimen
as Angels of Wallasey with no V02 max,
indeces of saturated fat or inner coconut dimensions
to the flight from scrambled bi-planes
over the Wirral of our past.
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Now the mind and body, in thrall to algorithms,
have become suspended negatives in an abandoned darkroom
as sprinklers refresh a path between cones
through fenced-in fields to cryogenic rooms
where Mary used to supervise tea urns and pies
as dusk encroached on the 5 on 5.
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But we’ll sort through old cuttings,
weighted training vests aside,
for unexplained fragments of time
outside your sports science,
think of the angels of Port Sunlight
alive beyond distant treelines
while a spreadsheet notes how we should have passed.