Getting Away with It

We have already lived in the real paradise.

Horses in the empty summer street.

Me eating the hot wurst I couldn’t afford,

in frozen Munich, tears dropping. We can

remember. A child in the outfield waiting

for the last fly ball of the year. So dark

already it was black against heaven.

The voices trailing away to dinner,

calling faintly in the immense distance.

Standing with my hands open, watching it

curve over and start down, turning white

at the last second. Hands down. Flourishing.