from this week in February 2012 (I was 67)
The sun was a lozenge behind the swirling sky
Through the sports’ park I
walked off the morning chill
The old walk in any weather
stretching in to form
Fog softened people then
enveloped them
to make intervals between
passing more pleasing
an uncommon literal
depiction of the way we pass
Though covered still sun
warmth and glow penetrated
to insist there would be
day
I walked the baseline of a
skin-field diamond
where drying emitted
swirling vapors
Ground sweating to shape
rotating breeze
columns twisting to abandon
shape for motion
There were no players there
were only plays
wispy glides along the
basepath
flares to the side high
stretches in dissolve
Thingless motions circled
the field
first to second third and
round again
I passed through right into
center
turning as a cloud blew out
from second
Something from me blew in
pursuit
following the parabola of a ghost ball
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