Thinking (If You Can Call It That) About James Tate

 

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.

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