When he pitched
he had a look that said
he'd just as soon as stab you
as shake your hand;
towering, he would stare
as imposing a figure
as anything the Greeks could conjure;
heíd grip the ball fingers across stitching,
rear back and fire
and the batter would spin and twist,
a spastic ballerina
diving to the dirt and
Gibson would stare, glove hand out
as if this were the natural order of things.
Elysian Fields Quarterly
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