out of the shaggy grass, the rusted stake

fades each time I turn, and it seems

all of these tosses should amount to more

than a few leaners skipping off the irons.

Red clover lies trampled near the pit, where

I have planted my foot, rocking back

for the slow underhand, blinking away

the mosquitoes and flies.

I keep at it because there is now a disc of light

on top of each stake, a cool halo there in the dark

where the steel gives back the moon’s glow.

I can scarcely see my own hands as I cast

toward the mark.

I am not content

with the clusters of near misses

glancing into the sand — this must end

with the kiss of iron and steel, the ring

of the shoe striking home.

Let others pluck the daisy’s petals.

The night embraces me. I gather the metal crescents.

I take my aim.

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