The bitterer we athletes are
the more we hope, we wish for
work, ports answer back
the world: the wind would blow your horn,
a bridge we walk along, a pond, a river
stretched across the sun, skin covering up whatever
lies beyond a boat I cannot
get into, a hard sandal, a shoe.
The rain in dots, the day backs
up when time is wet, can lean
against you when you do not seem in any way
intact but lost, magnified, coming up.
