Lacrosse

We settled into ourselves and the talk. I remember
less of what we said than how it felt.   
Between us, stilled spoons and glasses, each
with a glint of candlelight, bending slightly,
as we joined in the purr and put of ideas: listen,
and respond, a back and forth in which we joined.

I knew that rhythm from playing school lacrosse.
Across spring fields, I’d run full out—
netted stick extended to curl around 
the ball as it dropped. Then I’d cradle high, the ball
moving against gravity’s logic, and round
for a throw, aiming where no one was at all—

hope and desire hanging in the air,
and beyond, the empty place, and a moving form 
appearing gracefully to take it in.