Gedicht
Kay Ryan
A BALL ROLLS ON A POINT
A BALL ROLLS ON A POINT
A BALL ROLLS ON A POINT
The whole ballof who we are
presses into
the green baize
at a single tiny
spot. An aural
track of crackle
betrays our passage
through the
fibrous jungle.
It’s hot and
desperate. Insects
spring out of it.
The pressure is
intense, and the
sense that we’ve
lost proportion.
As though bringing
too much to bear
too locally were
our decision.
© 2004, Kay Ryan
From: Poetry, Vol. 185, No. 2, November
Publisher: Poetry, Chicago
From: Poetry, Vol. 185, No. 2, November
Publisher: Poetry, Chicago
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A BALL ROLLS ON A POINT
The whole ballof who we are
presses into
the green baize
at a single tiny
spot. An aural
track of crackle
betrays our passage
through the
fibrous jungle.
It’s hot and
desperate. Insects
spring out of it.
The pressure is
intense, and the
sense that we’ve
lost proportion.
As though bringing
too much to bear
too locally were
our decision.
From: Poetry, Vol. 185, No. 2, November
A BALL ROLLS ON A POINT
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