He comes at the pitch
Like a lion with red mane,
On a line
You could diagram,
With his back foot
The stationary leg of a compass,
He sweeps through
With the full power
Of the perfect circle,
Sending the spheres
Into an orbit of flasher.
They line up
Just to see him practice,
Lines of articles
Intersect with reality
Sometime in September.
In another sixty years
The grass will go brown
On his grave.
Touching All the Bases
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