2 players chasing shadows
on a dim-lit city street
full moon in september
night jet above flashing red
hooo-fffffff
whho-fff
poor man’s tennis:
father-son
no rhyme or reason to our play
writing a poem without a net
hooo–ffff
click<ffff
dream: a bird’s eye view of life
waiting for the one that never falls
about as close to heaven
as we may get: 2 shades of night
on the fly we serve & are served
playing blind for most of the game,
live in dark, though we aim to
keep it going (the bird, I mean)
lightweight though it is,
by backhands & bouncers
doingggg–ffff
whhoo–ff
the net affect of twilight
is a kind of love between us,
stabilizing feathers,
we fly to one another
& pray for contact–
the odd bird grounding out
with the thud & racquet-scrape
of failure
& yet that empyreal possibility
(father-son)
we keep the bird alive
between us & the spirit of flight
fine gut exchanging volleys
in the welkin
beneath polaris star
counting hits & hang-time
waiting for the one
that won’t come down
the one that won’t come back
whoo–fffff
hhhooooo——
(reprint)