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To Derrick Rose Upon Returning: A Poem


It’s an autumn with snow. Finally, people look up. Orange clouds like thin receipts demand the eyes’ signatures. And it’s cold and Chicago is looking forward to eating.


What honor you’ve uncovered, Derrick: your body a destiny, a willpower recumbent to hater charms smashed in wallets.


On your home court constellations are charted in the stands with phones.


Photographers crop out banners that hang from rafters. Gods arms off beds.


You could look down, Derrick, indifferently, you could, as we look at fish, separated by the reflecting boundary of water, without fear, gravity, levels of difficulty, in god mode incognito as we hunch over our nachos.


People talk of others’ bodies and decisions to make. There are mouth-breathers amongst us.


Dumbfounded in the distances of your leaping, tumbling—galvanized in the gray nonsense of Chicago winter, it’s you, Derrick.


It’s a navigation of an independence.


It is futile to pretend that we are looking at something else.

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