Corner Pocket
Every pool ball — when struck — pushes into the world a pool hall
and out the windows of this billiard Valhalla the fading lights of Austin,
dragged away by a child carrying them all on a tablecloth, ribbiting
the horizon line, nearly gone, the PA hanging from the ceiling like
someone has just moved in upstairs — a family of giant boots stomping
domestic thoughts like dogs with buckets on their heads, stopping
for nada — and this is just one lesson taken from pool table geometry.
