I heard girl-chatter emerge behind me
and saw Linda, the blond cheerleader with
those agate-brown eyes, split off from her
friend and smile my way as she angled down
Black bodies dead sprinting
up and down the asphalt
joins with lovely cadence
808 of ball bounce
producing perfect tune
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It’s the french press, icy sunrise,
6AM alarm still vibrating my teeth.
It’s epoxy fumes, see gloves and boots
as old gods gossiping by the sink.
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Gamblers ignite more frenzy than players,
cigarette smoke disfigures the sky,
old men living among the relics
like prosperous fish, take hapless prey,
(not like the “entertainment venue”
that the game and frontón are part of today).
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Frozen in the middle of the trail,
blocking the end of my summer morning run
was a fox, holding in its mouth a rabbit—
Your slap shot is anthrax.
Your passes are filthy.
Your skating is swift and fluid.
Sabres fans say your name
as if in prayer—
I’m forgiving the money I loaned you,
my lifelong homie. Late on your alimony,
$2,400 in the hole, you’re poised to forfeit
Yeah,
here we go
Englishmen planted willow trees in Kashmir
a hobbyist’s investment of fine grains.
The life of a tree is not ornamental beneath the surface.