Aside from a few light diversions which stand or fall on their terminal puns or tapped-out rhyme (Ringoes. . . fungoes. . . Bing goes. . . bongos), Morrison's poems are concerned with noting or reflecting the grace, rhythm, and motion of an athlete's performance or street player's games. This she does smoothly and pleasantly, though without the strength, tension, or exhilaration of the activities she celebrates. (In near cliches, women runners are ""Waiting the gun/ to pour them over the stretch/like a breaking wave,"" and a surfer is "". . . a water bird in flight."") But the very ease and accessibility of Morrison's imagery (on ""The Sprinters"": ""The gun explodes them./ Pummeling, pistoning they fly/in time's face. . ."") or her sound/sensation formulations (while biking, ""The roads to the beach/are winding/ we glide down/ breeze-whipped/curving. . ."") could work to spark that first tentative recognition of what poetry is up to. From the well respected anthologist of sports poems (Sprints and Distances), a top-seeded short distance contender.