As the chin, the shoulder, turn for air, the lungs
Pull for sky. Sky doesn’t respond.
I count every stroke, every breath,
Decimalizing distance, 1 point 1,
Arm over arm, breath, arm through, 1 point 2.
And then it is there, I mean I am there.
The running dream where I sink into the earth.
The pool is rimmed with fennel. Hot dogs burn
On the barbeque. The wind makes a misery
Of the green-plastic AM radio’s songs.
The hatchback needs cleaning: the red sand pail, green
Sand shovel, yellow sieve; a bucket of golf
Balls, a tin full of pale fruits, its Titleists and Top Flites,
Ejaculatory aesthetics, “Write a good poem?
Why don’t you try driving a ball 300 yards.”
Fewer have done the latter. Golf scorecards provide
Course maps that make me question myself, I am forced
To look beyond the merely visible.
12 point 5. Yesterday, on the fifth hole,
I shanked a 3 iron into the pond, a 1
stroke penalty, and finished the hole 3 over.
The pintails scattered, as the golf ball plunked
Into the water. It sank, as in the swimming
Dream. I exhale, slick pockets of air rush to the surface,
But not me, I sink. I am surprised I can hear
The radio, long after I have actually
Heard the radio. The Red Hot Dateline’s 1-
800 Numbers secret code, HOT DATE.
Maybe the vulgar have it right, I know I can
Screw anything up. Complicate any simple matter.
Maybe it is just an accumulated stack
Of smut. It's all just cock, cunt, cock, cunt. 20.
Oh! Oh! To be those dithyrambic organs!
I have always wanted to be that easy, but I am not.
I am but the flag of an idea waving in the distant wind,
Riffling with direction. Incomplete scorecard,
Mixed metaphor, distant swimmer signaling,
This is where it is, aim here. The treasure is here.
I am here.