The grass is the color of
grass, and we have run trails through it
so when it wimples like an ocean,
you see where we have come and gone
as if that was all we were ever to do

~

A long armed man strikes a tennis ball
moving languorously, all sinew and stretch
watching him it is all he was born for,
gliding with lank ease, such preposterous grace
in his reach and recoil

~

Such currents ebb in the maple’s bark
or in my hand or in the sun cast through us,
moving beyond and below, but the grass is its color,
as if it could be anything but, as if anything
could be immutable beneath a sky born pale
and clear and frail blue, and men born to stride
with ineffable nature, and my hand, to put
all as it now is, so when the grass is no longer
grass, and blue is not the sky,
when our bodily contortions are but memories,
like deer paths nestled through a field,
the world will still remember its order