He swings his racket after it the luminous
the ball nearly swerves into it
those ancient peoples learning to count
surrounded by it, every day
and navigators noting it there on the waves
the animus containing bits there on its subject
perched like sails
the bright rewards for preparing
to
strut forth
like a diver there on the board forced
by his greed
into
it.
Many loves changes
to
many times falling into
the day's lucid marshes
a tap on the shoulder or a first grasping that
object full of sparks
the wilderness untangled by it
the fierceness with which it forged its memory,
its daylight, its absence.
Yes to the point of damages,
yes
to
the stunning infrequency,
yes to encourage with repetition its repetition,
yes to the sober knowledge of its parsimony,
a few fir cones, sails, the stains removed,
blazes from the paper without lifting your hands.
