My poems are fast. My poems are
Athletic freaks. They can jump
Out of the gym, and sometimes,
Only sometimes, yes, but still,
They can yam on you,
On your head on their way down.
Quick, blink, peripheral, gone.
I watched one, the other night,
Racing the sunset
From Saint George to the mountains
Of Zion, and as I watched
It panting, keeping ahead
Of the shadows chasing it,
I laughed. Place your bets!
I called to the cliffs.
I want to collect.
I’ve already won.