they're there, they're
at it all the time, it's jai
alai on the hot molecular fronton-
a bounce off walls onto the packed aleatory
dance floor where sideswipes are medium of exchange,
momentum trades sealed in swift carom sequences,
or just that quick kick in the rear, the haphaz-
ard locomotion of the warm, warm world.
But spring nights grow cold in Ithaca;
the containing walls, glass or metal,
are a jagged rough rut of tethered
masses, still vibrant, but now
retarding, in each collision,
the cooling molecules.
There, they're there,