the dangerous hiss of a well-thrown ball,
and the satisfying snap on the other side;
following the ball through wind-ript space as it hisses
and snaps into your glove with an echoing pop.
Over and over and again and again and over
and ooooohhhhhhmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
(until I feel foolish, which is its own sort of enlightenment).
Recognizing a sweeping bend and striking
before the moment is past,
and running savagely to save yourself,
or else it is another oblivion.
Until, that is, you run out, and then
you go home to your family,
and you notice how things
haven’t changed at all and never have,
and it’s another oblivion also.
(Except sometimes you stop
or they die
and then you cry yourself blind.)
