from the bank where we sit, rain on our knees,
its a chalked smudge,
but I see it clear.
Like a spotlight focused on me.
Like an eye, coy.
It winks out
behind the partner dance of teams,
bodies threading, near collision
disappears into the tangle
of whipping hair and flashing thighs
that jostles and tightens
and I can feel it in there
the tiny ball - the eye of the ball,
looking for a loophole out of this fight,
and it shoots clear,
full shining against the green wash,
like a moon on quick rise,
like a throw-away poem,
like a negative cannonball,
innocent of weight.
At its peak
The ball sees me
and I look back.
The dusk is trying to be night,
the dew is trying to be water and
the water to be rain, and
I will it not to fall.
To keep you by my side in profile,
parallel, my twin and not my lover,
I will to stop the falling
that will send us laughing for cover
to some dry lit place
where I will have to face you,
understand your belonging
to me, and learn that dance