Perfect Golf - A Longing Focus

Sometimes, a nut - sometimes, a calculated angel - a prose poem.

A vacant, silly, and jaw-dropping antidote.

A courtesy of the bunkers
In which the golf ball remains
Solidly plugged.

Hit behind it, simply downward -
And exhibit finesse,

And blast away at the subsequent mantra.

Seeking a perilous tide
Of granularity
For the most scenic reverberations,
Casting aside the sadistic warring
Of the weeks ahead.

As the most gorgeous gains
Become an engendered shredding,

Designed for an entangled feat -

Fouled off augustly
By a beloved, draggled cup…