Texture, non gratis

Twenty two years ago I bounced a basketball –

worn dimple-less, faded black seams like rivers, 

an over-inflated world – I used it to kill a

spider, flatten him with a ping crisp as a

sniper shot.  I scrapped at him after, with

my ragged left thumbnail, unable to get

all the asterisk of him free of the concrete.

Twenty two hours ago, just outside Telluride,

a rock the size of my bedroom sighed after how

many millennia – crushed the car flat as

a stomped bellows and rebounded me right off

the cliff rim. Two hundred feet below, amid the

red chips of glass and bone, I wonder when

I’ll be peeled from the dolomite and steel

by his long scratchy legs.  I wonder if

he’ll get more than I did. 

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