This salt-stain spot

marks the place where men

lay down their heads,

back to the bench,



and hoist nothing

that need be lifted

but some burden they've chosen

this time: more reps,



more weight, the upward shove

of it leaving, collectively,

this sign of where we've been:

shroud-stain, negative



flashed onto the vinyl

where we push something

unyielding skyward,

gaining some power



at least over flesh,

which goads with desire,

and terrifies with frailty.

Who could say who's



added his heat to the nimbus

of our intent, here where

we make ourselves:

something difficult



lifted, pressed or curled,

Power over beauty,

power over power!

Though there's something more



tender, beneath our vanity,

our will to become objects

of desire: we sweat the mark

of our presence onto the cloth.



Here is some halo

the living made together.