Ferrari Atrium

Hooded, belted in, and considerably calmer than you would be.

Twenty feet above the water, on straps, in front of everybody.

Aluminium, stacked, and already scratched — which is the whole point of them.

The stick already up, the ball still on the ground, the light nearly gone.

Palms, lamplight, and several hundred people who all know each other.

The column goes back further than the picture does.

Dripped across a newspaper, in a red that has not quite finished running.

A torn note on navy, and one man refusing to look away.

Everything passes, says the writing. The child is unconvinced.