I know what you mean

about the whiteness of paper,

the inevitability of the sharpened pencil

and the exactitude of the forgotten

line that curves

to the contours of the robin’s egg

discovered beneath a hammock

resting on the freshly cut grass,

speckled for all it’s worth.


You talk about the weight

we all must learn to bear

and the nutmeg

you heard as a child

before you smelled it.


Because so much is lost

in translation

at least in theory,

the way the knuckleball

flutters and resists

understanding and gravity.

The way each Thursday

figures me

in the sparse shade provided by the simile

of a date palm.


by Christopher T. Keaveney

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