Fly Emirates, read the perimeter ads
at the World Cup match,
& I try to picture those fabled lands:
what rare seasoning, what iridescent treasure
must glisten on that far shore
like the shoulder of an ox,
rising over the curve
of what we’ll call the earth.
Transparent sails in the harbor.
Travelers rubbing lotion into their palms.
I can already hear the buzz of trumpets
that must herald every entrance
of their emirs.
World Cup haiku
Night game:
every player in the crosshairs
of his own four shadows
*
Even when he floats,
landing is just as hard:
slow-motion replay
*
Back and forth
from head to head to head—
& the ball makes four
*
Behind the prone body,
the perimeter ads
all turn over
*
Hand on his solar plexus
where a foot connected,
he jogs upfield
*
Waving the flag
of their just-beaten team—
“We’re on TV!”
*
Six hours later
I go outside to see it,
that African moon