“Throw your heart out in front of you and run ahead to catch it.” – PAC, 2012
Gravity forgot him; we
thought mortality did, too.
On a good night, he let his
Black Arrow loose and
pierced cotton and pine,
bullseye, three-count
followed by a ringing bell
and the swell of our bodies
reaching for his, untouchable,
man of myth now myth of man—
In the heavens somewhere,
he runs to catch his own heart,
thrown with the certainty of its
safe return to his chest—
but how will we remember him?
As a bastard flying above the ring,
or as Ben, the fan, the lover, the king?
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