He wouldn’t swing,
he’d wait and watch.
Even outside balls
were inside to him.
He’d walk, but the
running was done
by the doubt that circled his eyes.
His pupils were islands
in a lake of tomorrow.
He wouldn’t swing,
he’d wait and watch.
Even outside balls
were inside to him.
He’d walk, but the
running was done
by the doubt that circled his eyes.
His pupils were islands
in a lake of tomorrow.
Call it
baseball in October
When the ball disappears
between the mound and the glove –
we’re talking missile now,
the true white heat –
where does it go?
Does it stick to the line
or stray to the stars?
Does it do what it should
or hang out in bars?
alumination:
the ball struck
now spinning
to a far outfield
of the mind.
We’re with it going,
going gone.