In Garfield, Washington, the second of three
speed trap cities cutting in
Idaho on the way home from Spokane,
there is a gray-to-white basketball
it is feathered from use and exposure, reduced
Just enough to prevent prolonged play,
on the grass near the public court, aside
small garden toilet, more convenient soon
choice along the way. It makes me happy again
to see it and, before returning to the car,
shoot two or three baskets. It is necessary,
and everything else, buried under the snow
half of each winter. You lose information,
you shake the clock of the seated transport
and stand still with whatever you have seen:
the tractor waiting to pull the big buck
from the double yellow line, the pheasant disappears
on the bush, tall wheat with bright flowers
or grain waves in the wind of the track area
it is encouraging. Hit it twice or thrice and find out,
on the four fingers of your right hand,
Meridian bowed across the ball, grace,
to be remembered, to feel, to the back. Invisible
experience mark, on the groove, on the line,
the clock stopped, so that it could return to you.
This poem appears in August 2026 type version.
