Glovehand
for Carlton Mok

To be so naked

is time frozen, uncaptured
like an orange streak
through night-covered air,
taunting as it goes by.

Tiny Visigoth
of Chinese descent,
swaddled around plaid tibia
in engorged spongy fleece,

caught flailing
a futile wave, beaten.

Replay the dream,
each frame a plodding ox;
they know

to aim for the clock
as it ticks past one
stripped from neck to knee
unfettered, a loud crash.

Along the red basement floor,
ricocheting off particle board paneling
is another spear lit aflame.

Next time
soak it wet and pruny,
into the magic Edisto River

and not even Hector
will pierce your shield.