Squash-0

You don’t see the reason for poetry 

because it can’t make a good argument. 

Well, here’s one:  

Take squash: 

As we dance ourselves against concrete, 

casting shapes                       hit n’ runnin’ 

I-cut-your-line-you-cut-mine 

red lines/floor lines/skylines/by lines. 

The whole thing bounces between us: 

serving like altars 

reversing with brain-sight 

letting like shoe water 

killing with bright. 

Odd times, a point gets lost in the ceiling, 

me: re-believing, you ∴ unretrieving 

so we start even. 

So our rhythms sing into each other 

  but our bodies island. 

The shock when we collide 

is the shock of clock: 

the midnight exclamation mark, 

a coldwater alarm, 

sudden drown of undream. 

To return to retort: 

yes, coupling’s sport 

yet, in my hands, 

boxes can be yes-ands, 

be-longing will lengthen, 

we’ll mean in momentum. 

OK, I choke so red-regular, it’s funny. 

You keep score – I can’t count and lose. 

Still, somewhere deep in being, 

I know when (just like then) to snatch defeat, 

to pause those jaws, beat-retreat. 

Once, anger-lit, 

I threw and I kicked –  

ball-less, alternately-gamed. 

You saw me smash a racquet? 

(Held out shame like a jacket 

but I don’t live closed bracket. 

Look, our squares aren’t the same. 

Our end’s in how we came. 

Sure, you read patterned rackets 

where, love, I freefeel frames.