for Wiebe Boer
In green spaces, the young run drills—call their Cruyff turns
Swange; say the footballs they orbit are honeycomb worlds.
The earth is sweeter, of course, and less justly carved. Because
a globe of countries wobbles more than a sphere of polygons,
we cannot call this planet rung with angels’ footfalls our plaything.
But neither can we say we are not called to play. How will we set
anything right, after all, apart from daring? How will we imagine
the stakes of the gift cleft from its joy? Consider the halfbacks
box-stepping around soccer balls; there is not much difference
between their grace and their grans’, the old ladies’ Heisman jigs,
the rugs they cut, dancing church-aisle runners to ribbons.
But then, we are all practicing, vivid with a glory we do not own,
even we who tiptoe, hoping no one takes our shyness for ballet:
God does not love a tepid dance. Which is to say, let us together
sweat, training for Cana; our coaches grans and kings, let us
practice abandon. God, credit us with glories we’re too new to see.