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.