by Ted Dodson

I’ve started to find echoes of
you in me. The pop sharp,
the swelling roar, the parsing silver
of cleat on clay
                       and of
                                  coveting hope
or clout shadowing

tradition, fly balls, the game above gloves.
   What do we want when gripping
hands overhead?
                               Smaller sky?
 
 
 
THOMAS DODSON was born and raised in Middleburg, Va. He currently attends the MFA program at Brooklyn College where he received the 2009 Himan Brown Award for Creative Writing. He is also the assistant poetry editor of the Brooklyn Review.

Back to Poetry