Playoffs

Playoffs

June

Reading Arendt-McCarthy letters

in bed with the NBA

seeping under the door.

The game’s become

too strong’s a way

the old say there’s no

thought in speed.

That gifts should be

allocable, forensic

as tracked packages, lest

mystery proceed.

My friends have lightning

gifts and dodge

the world. And also crumpled

slowness sweet to see.

To me few write singly.

Life’s bulked up.

We all talk in hoops.

It’s night: azaleas,

witty, bloody, barely

hold on then

barely drop

their blooms.

Whate’er they do’s

like doing nothing

best. Hey, look:

there’s rabbits underneath.

Like blood moons:

larger seen

through trees.

And leeched and lit

by the bona fide

moon, minnowish

oak leaves, sterling,

darling, flash

their rapid costly

grants. I’ve nothing

to contribute but

my matterhorn subject,

my every last

and red ascent.