One lunar eclipse in seven years
and it's raining so we can't see it.
But there's a perfect picture on TV,
over St. Louis, where the Cardinals
play like geniuses against the Braves.
Oh, St. Louis, murmurs Ernie Johnson,
what a sweet franchise. We're in bed,
in Alabama, but I still get
that sliding sensation - planets
riding on the black hip of universe,
the deep shadow of pure night rising
over the pleated lip of Busch Stadium,
and the words sweet franchise move
forever outward, like all radio waves,
toward the unreasonable dawn of time -
making chaos sweet, summer endless,
the blue turf fast and true. The ball
coming off the bat makes the most reassuring
sound in the world: the crack of time
straining against the seams,
pouring out toward the warning track.
You're in the outfield now,
dancing under the ball, moonbathing,
the shadow of something - surprise,
a faint smile - crossing over your face.
I can see you now, just counting on
coming back to earth.
Line Drives
Edited by Brooke Horvath and Tim Wiles
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