Lick the metal grains from the creases in my palm.
Clap my hands.
Lick them again until the taste is
entirely in my sinuses.
Clap my hands.
Wipe the blood from the hoop of my nostril.
Mash the ball 440 feet.
Or was it 300 yards? Drain it from 30.
Set the match to every word
taken to a grave. Crush my father's skull
in my metal laced hands
in the second act of Blade Runner's
death above and blowing through
my lungs, my veins, my bones.
Or when he did not
get up,
mumbling about his teeth and drink,
the bar-back shaking his head,
"go the fuck home,"
I went to the park
and slept.
Every word to the grave.
Every ball ever played.
Crush his skull until the shards get stuck
in the creases of my palm and
chew the tang until it's in my sinuses and
push another pair of plates on the rack.
