restless feet
hard as astroturf
a synecdoche
kinesthetic
intelligence
fragile as joy
in young bodies
ricochets off the walls
streams of sweat
connecting as a high five goal
it’s true this sinewy pleasure
evaded me
cloistered and day-dreamy
a bookish, strange child
talking to myself
watching life
from a high rise window
clear enough
from a safe distance
time and space on my side
this is more than a game
it’s a collective language
created by the grammar
of ball, whistle
and movement.
great poem, Magdalena!
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