The glove went up with the hand,
with the ball, with the hope
(“Please God, don’t let the ball come to me.”)
on the same prayer sent up
by every boy
in the wrong place
in right field
at the wrong time.
He stands
still. Still,
his father
in the stands. And, further,
reaching, reaching, ever
reaching upwards the glove on the hand in the air and the arm reaching –
And now the ball falling, fall-
ing fast now faster
– faster – (his father in the stands) – the ball!
The hope the prayer the arm the air;
the father in the stands,
and above,
above it all it
falls, falls into place, falls into – mercifully,
I do not know how, why, or of –
it falls
somehow, I do not know from whom, from where, whereof –
triumphantly into
magnificently
into –
the glove.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME