DRAFT

I want to write a song of ourself, ourselves,

in which we see ourselves as mere spectators

of a game between this and that -- not them and us

and, God forbid, not good and evil,

and according to our disposition

betting or not betting on the outcome,

watching the clock or the inning expire,

agitated by the gross or subtle expression of the strong or the cagy

according to our disposition,

and participating just as much as the players do

that is, as most of us do, from a distance usually safe

from the fights and foul balls.

Finally, I pray, we will find the point

not to be strength or caginess, not to be deception or execution, but

endurance and energy over the passing of time.

We will see the actual drizzle and not the telephoto sheet of rain,

something that passes, as we do, ephemeral

as a desert creek at times yielding the delicate trout,

as we see and for a moment may be privileged to hear

the people on the lawn, the clay, the humble mat,

or if we insist the raked track or the blond hardwood floor,

released by what is not their work but their daily play

to say what makes them like ourselves,

as this song itself admits that itself is a version of something

well recalled from our grandfather's generation, and has a point.

I want to say our anxiety will burn off then and we will stand for the stretch

as a candlestick stands reflective (yes, and empty)

on the table of an everyday afternoon,

understanding and taking part in the clarity of light and air

where the terms of the contest are clear. That is enough.