Summer 1992 • Vol. XIV No. 3 Poetry |

In the Box

A baseball knows its calculus, knows  its trajectory,    each    inch      from the pitcher's hand,   when it's scheduled to curve, or tail away     from your downtown lunge and leave you on your ass. You can only guess:   no matter how you study,       how much you've learned, a great slider or split-  finger, even when you see it—red dot      spiraling   white flicker—     even when the crack     starts everyone yelling,      can devolve into a punk        pop        and flop into the second baseman's mitt,     or dribble you into a double killing. In flight a baseball's an angel   outshining sun or arc lights, its wings invisible.    Its blood-    red       stitches strut like seraphim;       umpires alone have witnessed them,        but at 90 MPH        every stitc

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