Beneath a silver sky
men on mowers sheer
the wild green tongues
of a meadow. But that
must have been yesterday
because now half a dozen boys,
each as straight and tall as a little i
bend in the middle towards home,
singing Hey batter batter,
listen to my chatter, batter batter –
Suh-wing! – an incantation cracked
open by wood on ball rising
so high it is a tiny comet skirting
the sun. It is streaking towards
a horse that always grazes
in the pasture beyond, and now
the leftfielder launches; he hangs
suspended – I can see him clearly,
as if I were lying
in the grass beneath:
the glove hand, open wide
for something he can
never snare; the red cap,
name and number scrawled
black under the brim;
the red t-shirt, plump white P
over the heart; and blue
bell bottoms, yellow paisley
patches on each knee,
stretched tight and let out
twice for legs that trail
like a great heron
taking flight. Such awkward
beauty, I think — trying to make
out the face —
until the slightly parted lips
of a woman droop
into view; they lean
like a heavy bloom over
a still spring pool.
“Can you tell me your name?”
they say, “And can you tell me
your date of birth?” “Yes,”
I say, to the white blunt petals
of bloodroot that flutter
as she breathes. “I was born
in May,” I say to the purple
woods behind them.
“I was born in May.”
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