Nebraska Center for Writers

OFFICIAL
by Jeff Lacey

My father was one. In my favorite story
he was working a game in a frozen rain in York
and after one play found a finger by the ball,
but no one claimed it. So, he would say
I lined them up and told them to hold out their hands.
He found the kid, the center, in shock, trembling,
staring straight ahead.
                                 So—who do we need
When we lie twisted at the bottom of things,
in the furious speed of our going?
Someone infinitely practical, a clear thinker
to keep us safe. My father was one. Stripes suited him.

Reprinted with permission
Copyright © 2012
by Jeff Lacey


RELEASE
by Jeff Lacey


Pen knife, do what you must:
cut through the impossible knot
so the leader may be retied
to sail out again
over the bright water of thought.

Reprinted with permission
Copyright © 2012
by Jeff Lacey


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