baseball field heaven
with our fingers, we trace circles around each other
in the orange-red dirt. to be dead is to be
a baseball player. teeth full of grit.
we take turns outfield-standing; making sun dials
of our bodies. one of us says, "it is noon"
& he says it every hour. the stadium is
a far away story. sometimes we stare out
& say, "i think i see it." a glint of sliver
suggesting a bleacher. none of us remember hot to play
but i remember how it felt to put my fingers
through the chain link fence. we go out to pitch at the sky.
i say, "home run" as the ball is eaten by blaring light.