GAMES AT DUSK For Jim Marshall Sailing on that twilight river, reefing, tacking at will, gliding from shore to dark-rimmed shore under the dark-browed hills; or in winter, skimming the surface, drawing elegant figures of eight, while behind, the current-fretted ice crumbled beneath your weight-- The end of the body is freedom; darkness, a half-opened door, leading to a dark so dense, so deep it cannot grow more. Try floating, leaping from rooftops, abandon all hope and fly-- Beneath you, is only the ground you know, above you, only the sky.
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