|
the high fly ball,
arches out above left field,
hangs there in the sky
outblazing the sun
while fifty thousand heads swings and cry
"Over the wall! Over the wall!"
then hold, fixed and dumb
as the ball drops
down and down, a dead bird
into a waiting glove
and there you have it: the song,
the flight, the perilous whisper of truth
or of love or possibly of faith
then the descent
and the end of the game |
