Wednesday, February 11, 2009


Beyond the circle of stadium light
night cuts quick,
my hands untrembling
as they pull stained shin guards and purple socks
over thin bones,
as they knot the fraying laces
of my cleats.
The ball is harsh
and unmanageable.
Dribbling, I run in starts
and stops, inhaling the damp
potpourri of mashed grass
and mud, the chill air searing
the insides of my ribs.
Trailing out behind, I run.

I never consciously wonder if I'll ever be enough.
On defense, I
uproot grass shoots, gnawing
the sweet white of the stalks,
tearing the seeds from the stems.



  1. What is it that prevents us from speaking?
    Is it my preoccupation with my occupation?
    Is it my interest in films? Music?
    We always hug and tell one another: “I love you,”
    But I need to sit you down and inquire about your situation,
    Because “I love you” can so often be just a greeting,
    I have this feeling that between the “hello” and “I love you”
    you have a life you’re living,
    Completely unknown to me,
    A life confronting suffering, a life of joy,
    And yet, you speak not a breath of this life with me, and I not with you,
    So what is it?

    It feels sometimes like a coat,
    One not constructed of words or light or spectacle,
    A coat that is either in the dark or invisible in the light,
    It protects me but your eye cannot detect its presence,
    I am a beast beneath this coat,
    and in contrast to murder,
    silence is welcome.

  2. one thing that amazes me about your poems is how often they speak my own mind. this feels like it could have been written by me, about me...