Le temps a laissé son manteau. . . . —Charles d’Orleans
Rajon . . . turned in his best season . . . erratic as ever. —the Guardian, 2012
Rondo’s tour . . . will continue in New Orleans. . . . —Sports Illustrated, 2017
Time” called; a faked-out-of-its-jock,
short-winded, sweat-drenched man-to-man
(“the Garden crowd erupting . . . ”) ran
for cover—high-tops freeze, limbs knock,
an orange blur, as per—à chaque
fois—a playground-cool game plan,
a little French Lick—faire le Jacques—
swift, passing-fair legerdemain—
a poly—allez, hop! (tick-tock)—
optic, au courant catch-as-catch-can,
eludes the last wide-stretched wingspan,
arrives, to rise above the mere debac-
le—dunked-on, faked-out-of-its-jock.
Guiding the cutter toward the block—
amused, precise (à la Rodin,
or Gaudier?), l’artisan
endures, delivers up the rock . . .
Half-baked, beside the Common flock,
the quickening Charles, the die-hard fan-
taisie concocts combines: Ainge, Doc,
cagey, to stretch the Truth in clan-
destined rendezvous—langue d’oc
to Louisville—the courts, the coups, the van-
ishing point one, roundabout, began
to make (“alight, O shade of Auerbach”)—
the world is faked out of, ad hoc.