Slowly as in an underwater dance
the shortstop dips to take the ball
on a low hop, swings back his arm, balancing
without thought, all muscles intending
the diagonal to the first baseman's glove.
As the ball leaves his hand, the action stops —
and, watching, we feel a curious poignancy,
a catch in the throat. It is not this play only.
Whenever the sweet drive is stopped
and held, our breath wells up like the rush
of sadness or longing we sometimes feel
without remembering the cause of it.
The absolute moment gathers the surge
and muscle of the past, complete,
yet hurling itself forward — arrested
here between its birth and perishing.
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