Whose song this is I think I know.
Imagine the shot as a butterfly’s approach.
The cat by the fence unconcerned, yet surveillant,
taking in the loop on upward air, a little dip and zigzag
there. Knowing all things converge. And where.
And wanting no truck with time.
A life in the land
of do, devoid of ought and thought, which only shift the load,
the barge tilts, swings across the current, the bottom
of the Detroit river, toxic, leaden, waits.
What you watch for at the other end,
the way a changing wind flips leaves, crests become
numbers, numbers crests. The crowd’s on its feet, oh yes,
what they would do, how stupid not to do, and five coming at me
with grim intent. I creep to the top of the crease,
begin to consider arcs and angles.
History.
This is where the cat melts into the trees.
You see the crossing pattern at the line
and sense the shifting plan, the sudden presence
at the post—which way does he shoot?—and brace to block
the shot or slide across and stack the pads (whose woods
these are I think I own) intent on
where read the turn of wrist
and tilted blade see it all before you see
the hand leaps drop to the ice to cover up crunch
of blades ice bone mocking eyes
familiar rasping at my ear
lucky lucky bohunk son of a bitch
shit spit
oh sweet song live on, live on
only in my own heart sings the speed