Willie Smith

Some Zero Game

Sat on a bench on the edge of a lawn,
nursing lemonade with gin, 
toying with memory’s engine.
Why is yes minus es. Memory of
an echo echoes in the memory. 
Swallows desolate the colonnade.
A distant couple’s berating passes out of hearing.
Little boys in the shadows 
spit machineguns.
A bat slices the air, 
reverberating in the ear. 
Stars not yet there 
in the purple poise. The gears, 
the worms, the shifts, the buttons 
down the suit disappear. This early fall 
early evening suits itself, leaves 
blowing across the lawn 
like leaves 
blowing across the lawn,
the soul the sole remains.

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