Resin we stick these old chipped wooden tees inside holes we nailed along the edge of the dock and disturb the chirp of the crickets with the thwack of rusted clubs, the hiss of warm mealy store-brand American lager every slice an act of slow pollution a bed of artificial turtle eggs that will endure, unsoftened, dotting the future dams of bemused beavers yet born humid huts dimpled with Dunlops and Pings they don't even make these balls anymore two-toned like bulbous resin macarons the glossy pastel of an ancient chic we don't plan on paddling across the still to recuperate our cannon fodder let the soft banks opposite us sort it if they clear the lake, they'll have pierced the sun the crackling in the distance amplifies