It’s 1925, I sit in the chair

across from Capablanca. I’m here to replace

Herr Lasker, but the Cuban couldn’t care,

the clock is ticking; there’s sweat on my face.

I see that black’s a hopeless situation:

It’s middle-game, French Defense. But I ignore

the crush of infinite numbers, and calculation,

and push my little pawn to Queen’s Rook 4.

It’s 2001, I’ve read your poems and decide

to start with one about love — when you found

your Catharina — and though I’m mystified

by the endless permutations of words and sound,

I finally lift my pen, in frustration,

rhyming “creation” with “supplication.”