Most mornings I walk from the gymnasium alongside the frozen pond

and past the snow-drifted gazebo, through stray beams of sunray gently split by the pines lining the road, like warm, imaginary, plasmatic wood

to play drums with the same palms i’ve always had, slapping and bumping, vibrating, dragging fingertips like a whisper

smiling, channeling something but not reflecting on anything at all.