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Wild sky
blows into the batter's box,
chops the hardball downward
so it bounces off the plate —
slam into his cheekbone.
Whirling from the hit,
he kicks up loose dirt,
flings his helmet
hail-hard into the backstop.
The welt swells and darkens,
over-clouds
the set and certain baselines,
the pattern-mowed turf,
cares nothing
for what I think is fair or foul.
I am drenched
in all the rain's wet questions.
Copyright 1998 by Brian Powers |