Moon Valley Country Club
After he walked through the arcadia door, almost unscathed,
like a saint, like someone materializing out of the fifth
dimension, the wall of glass parting in thousands
of deadly splinters, falling in front and behind him,
he turned to all of us watching from Tim Sawdey's
living room, and straightening himself, extended
his arms in a full benediction, hands upturned
balancing beer cans like a chalice and ciborium,
and then he bowed and curtsied. And when
he straightened again, we could see the blood
drain from his face, cheeks and lips a gravid blue,
and his legs wobbly at the knees, so that when he stepped
back through the jagged maw of the door, as if to make
the glass reassemble, the breakage heal, he collapsed
on the patio and lay in sight of us, as if he'd come
a great distance out of the fairways and traps, skirting
the water hazards, and crossing the greens to perform this trick
and now it was time for him to lie down and sleep.
The Ledge: Poems
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