My wrist didn’t break when I played tennis
Though I can’t play tennis—
More later—my wrist kept intact
While I did not play.
Most people don’t know
What’s in a wrist
Regarding it
Avec perfume
Or shaving,
But since I’m blind
Hearing tennis,
Ovoid snicks like
No other noise on earth
I dream now
Between beheadings
Of the lunate bone
Yes—moon on top
Of the wrist
It hugs ligaments
And the lower arm bones
Mainstay of the carpal
Moon dust
That’s coalesced
Into a perfect ball
That we may hit another ball
Thus expressing
Our vexation
At being.
