sung to the tune of “The Rattlin’ Bog”
Start from the premise that
a sphere of acrylic resin falling
off green baize into a leather pocket
is an unfailing sound.
Begin from there. Well
now questions are there questions.
What is the sound. What
precedes backward. Follows
after. Is it undiminished
forever. Before the fall
the kiss. Before the kiss the purr
of slate. Before the purr the
hard palatal click of one
against another against
the thump of leather cue
conversing with chalk conversing
with ash grain
with talc in the thumb cradle
with smooth jointure of
elbow forearm fingertips the whole
hot corpus superconducting the aim
of one mastering eye for which
light is a reflexive
verb unfailingly pronouncing.
Doing this unfailingly is called
running the table.
Doing this and only this
is called a wasted youth.
Why I will on my one day certain
if unknowable death bed rewind
to the climactic invisible sound
of a black ball disappearing itself
off the edge of the known earth
is that the question or the chorus coming
round or the rules of the game or the free
carom of delight
that sets a motion moving...
Once in a while time takes place
as if it were made of particles in space
and orderly. But thinking of time
I run before and behind
myself and if I have a fate I know
the knowledge of it never fails
to sync up at the speed of sound
and always—thunk—a trifle late.
