At forty-three, I learn
the mass of the body.
Watching my son dunk
a basketball, I cannot

say he soars and spins
in the air. But truly
he hoists the ball
above the rim and

through the rim
and ripples the net
with force. In the stands,
my muscles recall

the coil to launch,
the brute master of
a consummated arc,
how the joints

when called upon, deliver.
(Descartes in my bones,
I dunked; therefore I am.)
A great unburdening,

this loft of graceful
memory against the general
settlement of flesh.

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