If his son could only catch
the windfall floating in the air
from forty yards --
to catch and run
to dodge and dip -- no doubt
in gathering in
That wouldn't make a difference.
The father doubts.
The windfall wobbles.
The son stumbles to track its trajectory
it bounces off his head
he swarms it into his arms
he runs the other way
he times a kick to reject its arc
it lands harmelssly, without a thud
it goes out of bounds
it knows no bounds.
The iron balls, in baskets,
hung from each hand
each foot
fathom nothing, form something
in excruciating, incriminating pain
as if reading
reaches into the reader
the same instant
the reader reaches into reading
Posted by: Frank Sauce | May 01, 2006 at 09:08 AM