A golf ball soars full
of promise, then green.

Rolls through field
first fast, then weak.

I drove to you last night
in the storm blind-drunk

and skidded to a stop,
stumbled up stairs.

My knock, magnetic
as rain pulls together clouds,

pulled our jaws
apart like pork.

Knees bent, you take
your swing. I land

drowning.

 

(originally published in Grasslimb Journal, Fall 2018)