The direction, drive, and drop,
The fierce curve winking
Into the mitt and its plop.
That a curve would not break in space,
Propellers would beat nothing forever,
That birds would flap absently
Like words hanging motionlessly
Between mind and page.
That speed is relative,
That legs are powerful,
That Aboriginal grip on an ancient weapon
That slashes an ultimate curve
And only is what it is,
Too clean for symbol,
Too pure for metaphor.
Touching All the Bases
Tim Peeler
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