Trash Can Basketball

Go ahead, write a list:
Life is short as a falling star,
the heart is a restless bird,
clouds are superior poets,
your hands are etched with failures. 

Keep going, there’s more,

more stains than in all the windows

that reach for God at Notre Dame.

Now ball them up and throw each one away,
you still have a an arm with a hand,
and practice for a hundred days,
until upon your chest she lightly lands,
that fragile moth
who comes to pull the threads
of light into a gentle knot,
walk you out in the rising moon,
weave you netting for the stone
the one that's ground to dust for wishes,
that by you it may be known.