woodcut
prologue

A vintage change-up
And still
He rips one across the living room.

“The stroke—,”
He said, gazing past the lights,
“I ain’t gonna question it.”

“I can see it.”


I can see it

Even as a boy, out there in the field:
A fantasy called Sharp Relief,
To do with both pressure and definition,
A moment out in front of the many years,
A giving in to it

A ring
A crack
A swell
A cry
A note

sustaining