Haven’t all the sonnets been written yet?
There’s a game on, I’m told. The Blue Jays
are flapping off the branches of old syrup-dried
trees while the enfolding flowers are dying outside.
I am inside now, shivering and cold
and wondering if there is mold
in the wooden room, whether it points to
the North, to the waters where the
petals paddle and there are fish as big
as your reflection because you are young
again there, thwacking that stick, batting that ball,
running as far as you can hit, just over the end of the road.
Where did that ball go? Where did you?
I heard that the Blue Jay’s lost by two.