The bowling alley sounds like a bottling factory
its lines uncorked and every lane a light show
of spilling prolepsis and soft bottomed shoe slide
with curving anticipation and explosive excitement.
Splits appear and show in the piqued spin
of the turn about after the pause as the ball
rolls to its clatter in the gutter of chagrin
at the pins left standing and smiling
wingless pigeons dithering in place
the lane vast with its snowy beer
stained past the air warm with smoke
pin boys hiding in darkened wings.
The Coming of the Toads 