In the morning you read the wind.
Determine its direction
from a jealousy window
unrolling mountains,
suspecting the world in your hands
may have lost its bounce
but the supple leather feels good in fingers
that set the spinning motion,
one shot
unbalanced and off course
is replaced by poise for the next launch
from a line you cannot cross,
the past and the future,
the flow and what’s forced,
divisions are remedied
under rafters of protective monkey pod trees.
You heave a ball at a metal rim
and forget everything.
The lingering dog bite sore,
the residual burn from yesterday’s war,
the rhythm proceeds
when you are no longer keeping score,
from the mysterious streaks you store
sunlit on an asphalt pyre,
while Pu’owaina,
the hill of sacrifice,
rises above neighbor and cemetery
like the arc of memory
in last night’s moon
as it completes its swoon through the sky,
a swish at the end of an enlightened try,
in nets that arrested you
like a rain of free throws,
one moment of serenity,
the valley dried out after wet weeks
to offer light
a welcome leap
on a court you alone are sovereign to,
this perfect morning meditating
on the trajectory of a lush sweep inward.
The imaginary crowd sounds its applause
before it falls silent.
yakskinpocketnotes 