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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