I want to be the kind of man who smokes

with fingers like forktines stabbing at geodes, fruitless.
Down in the valley of discontent, a man

clubs his ball in the hole. A man kicks his ball
in the goal. A man throws his ball in the net.

Slow down the shock so it sounds
like lightning, a wheezing kettle, space heat.

A man runs his ball across the line hits out of the park.
A man bones his ball into the sun and it explodes

in an ecstasy of light. Two men volley
a ball back and forth, a midwinter tale. One man

victorious wears an item on his head, perhaps
a symbol, perhaps for smoke, for mineral light. The caves

are darker than ever before. Luminosity
is fruitless with all these fingers stabbing blindly

at anything dark, anything female. One no longer makes
paint from ground mineral, but buys. He pays cash and pours

the single color over the whole damn town. There is money
to be made, and lack-valleys full of pitch and holes.