VrijMiBo To Throw First
The darts were faithful like hawks.
The picture of them on the box was faithful
to what lay inside. Three new darts with orange flights
in velveted plastic grooves.
Their perfect grips, each tiny steel bubble firm,
each indentation clean, asked for your fingers.
You'd splay the single fronds along your cheek,
then smooth them back.
The moment when you took them lightly
and raised them to your ear, contained the moment
when your eye and wrist would drive them home.
A pledge.
Prettig weekend. En be nice.
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