At practice
the blue eyed boy
tall-talked about a
skydiver dying out
at the old airfield–
the thunderous thud,
the crater–
his half-lying irises
diffusing light just like
the air-scattered rays
on Saturday at the park.

The matter
was on the ground,
in the grass, laughed,
and played burlesque.
In scrimmage of skins versus jerseys
they kicked the comic world around
as if it were a head. It was easy
to run away from scenes
of falling poppies, or
Spanish dancers, macabrely tumbling,
undulating red in steady hula.

And gravity,
dropping its gavel
from the black-robed cosmos,
never would grave me. Still,
his pieces are waiting
in gardens of bougainvillea,
and as wind passes through teeth the
random archaeology
of a butterfly resting
finds him porcelain white–
his brittle hand
and broken

poem x travis hancock