Will I play 17 holes Before I die? The branches break With no leaves to breathe Just one leave left seething Driving to the pole I bide my shot Biting my tongue on the fore Before me, beyond me After me The course of my body Riddled with the same query And a hole No luck or blood to flow From any So many Too few I thought I knew how To play But the wind, she Laughs and loves And I wait for her Must I play Seventeen holes?

BACK -- HOME