Me and my doppelgänger fire
high-powered rifles with no scopes
at something that’s presumed to exist
in sudden floodlights of intent
emerging like a mushroom cloud
at the fifty-yard line
but really exists in our hearts  

We teleport to the bulletin board
fastened against the right field wall
I write my name on the tired balloon
with a magic marker like others have
A vague shame laps below my conscience  

While walking back, a minister’s ghost
frighteningly white and finely detailed
comes at me with anger and reproach
Instinct hardens me because he’s right  

The Russian girl did it, too, I say
I’m being international, like the World Cup
Truths I know are also lies
floating to the ground  

The minister wants to bearhug me
constrain unprincipled liberty
but he’s too frail to manifest
I sponge his spirit into me
embrace surrender’s weakness  

But we and I are trapped in a world
that doesn’t accept surrender
All I can do is try to walk
like Taylor Swift doing Tai Chi
without an embolism or aneurysm
until my path folds in on me
like a handkerchief