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