It was just distance
confusing perception, not
motion swinging the brain
into the skull like a slab
of meat on a hook in
the frozen-locker downtown
Chicago, in the heat of
a summer when the Sox
couldn't lose, as we
sat in the bleachers with
hot dogs painted yellow,
beer cups dripping with
Sunday, a promise kept
too late in season, a
silence too big for the
hometown crowd.
Elysian Fields Quarterly
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