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Shooting Baskets at Dusk
He will never be happier than this, lost in the perfectly thoughtless motion of shot, rebound, dribble, shot, his mind removed as the gossipy swallows that pick and roll, that give and go down the school chimney like smoke in reverse as he shoots, rebounds, dribbles, shoots, the brick wall giving the dribble back to his body beginning another run from foul line, corner, left of the key, the jealous rim guarding its fickle net as he shoots, rebounds, dribbles, shoots, absorbed in the rhythm that seems to flow from his fingertips to the winded sky and back again to this lonely orbit of shot, rebound, dribble, shot, until he is just a shadow and a sound though the ball still burns in his vanished hands.