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.