These were things one happened upon,
senseless crystal bits
fixed for one second
for once and for all
These were things one happened upon,
senseless crystal bits
fixed for one second
for once and for all
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?
What if we,
like the rock splitting the stream,
could split the atom
and watch the parts roll and rejoin
in combos unknown?