THC

The perfect inhalation

as the sound of

a basketball

carries itself

beyond the trees

without excuse

rising straight in place

a deep green.

You take this

with one eye,

then two

like the temptation

bouncing

you out

onto the concourse

with no ball but

the eye

roaming an uneasy breeze

the grass unsure.

You convince yourself,

held

to the earth,

that pigeons

are only creatures

with no

names.

Exhale. Come

out to

the court where

the boy and his ball

need nothing

no names

no sounds

no need to ask

the grass

anything

as if in green

there is something

other than green

growing

from the branches

of the city-sick trees

something other than bark

and seeds.

Unsure of foot

on this

terrain,

bristled around

the roots

entwined below,

grasping its slope

there’s nothing in green

that doesn’t

open your eyes.

In the darkest

unfinished basement

of your thought

there is an

open window of sunlight

for you

if you walk with green

if you lie down with green

at every move

await green

at every pause

you hum the words

your smoke will print

in air.

If in any doubt

you lose your way

you find your lips

on green.