Weaving her
More or less Futbol-shaped
Bump through New York streets
She assumes that
The moment which
Fathered it
Arose
Not in their nest of banked
Bedclothes and soft words
But a good ten
Or fifteen minutes
After
When summoned
To play soccer,
And sweating
In the icy breath
Of January dusk,
Her palm laid
Against the insistent bark
Of a wintering tree,
She feels rather than sees
the ball stream by
(Stealthy and silent
As an idea)
Past
Her surprised
and ineffective feet
And hears his exultant
Half laugh-half shout
Goal!
_
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