I know what you mean
about the whiteness of paper,
the inevitability of the sharpened pencil
and the exactitude of the forgotten
line that curves
to the contours of the robin’s egg
discovered beneath a hammock
resting on the freshly cut grass,
speckled for all it’s worth.
You talk about the weight
we all must learn to bear
and the nutmeg
you heard as a child
before you smelled it.
Because so much is lost
in translation
at least in theory,
the way the knuckleball
flutters and resists
understanding and gravity.
The way each Thursday
figures me
in the sparse shade provided by the simile
of a date palm.
