Not to say too much, nor paint those shadows
deeper than they were, his serves just clearing
the drop of the woods, and that line of maples
along Route Two, a deeper green. Greater matters
attach themselves to the sense of things
we learned, like the shockless strokes of triples
scalded down the lines, singeing the Nadeaus'
birch trees: overspin, top hand. What meaning
could one assign to batting practice; who grapples
light enough to comprehend that meadow's
darknesses? He pitched from deepeer shade, peering
in to catch the sign to get me out. No scruples
for the dustbacks that flung me down to dirt:
"Get up, son. Hang in. Baseball doesn't hurt."
Spitball
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