There are warm afternoons when light
congeals on the field like honey-colored paint;
when the pitch looms toward the plate big as a pumpkin
and you stand at the back of the box whth time enough
to count all one-hundred-and-eight stitches in its rolling seam.
The slow looping swing of the bat is just an afterthought -
its intersecting are instinctive as breathing.
It's the sound more than the impact that rattles your bones,
that uncomplicated whack.
And the horsehide is a small ball again, astonishingly white
as it rockets past short, skims the mitt's web scuffing lace-to-lace,
catches the grass, skips off the nap of the close-clipped turf
as if it were still on the horse, jumping fence
with the faint rub of hooves, sailing into new pastures.
Line Drives
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