Sport 2: Autumn 1989
Pot-Shot, at Three
Paul thinks that he can shoot down the moon.
He thinks he can point his finger straight at it,
say Pow! and, in a second or two
the moon will jolt from its socket,
tip sideways, and fall,
not with a fiery whoosh or a shower of sparks,
but in a slow spin through the blue evening air,
through tall black pine trees, to land
with a soft thud, right at Paul's feet.
It will bury the edge of its curve
in the needles, with a faint hiss
where their dampness cools its white skin.
And Paul will stretch out his hand,
touch with his finger, and say
Did I really do this?