I ran myself ragged at the backboard 
to hear the pop of the ball
between my racquet and the wall,
the flat, the faded, the waterlogged, 
pounding shots the board gave back. 
On the courts I hammered serves,
forehands sailed, and when
I landed one, it went unanswered.
So if sometimes I bat my words 
against the half-silver of a two-way-mirror,
Love, see through your side to the boy
at the backboard rehearsing in the void 
that he fought against, then came to prefer.
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