first inning
the world blinks, in a powered Series
like a club that can steal, slashed windup that seals
the deal,
an impressive part of a rookie:
making the ball a little less lively
they’re trying to claw their way
into contention, out of slatted lost clock-free
stumbleblooming
--ask anyone, where the grass inhabits
ghosts with logos like fears with bat speed
& are they still in the un nationalized
league? right thru the hitting zone
you worry about slow-scale war, the set line-up
& those who patrol, are platooning
. . . a utility guy
gets thru spring ;
average attendance is up
& a ground ball flies
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