Tuned to the voice of God
He orchestrates life in the dirt,
Snagging hot ones up the middle.
From the stillness of his heart
Aligned with bags and stars
He generates bliss in backhand stabs
And mid-air twists to throw.
Breaking into memory, he follows
The hitter’s eyes, matching strides
To swings, knowing the orb’s path
Before it launches from the bat.
Because he was promised, his intellect
Thrives on gaming, his souls vibrate
And shine. His mind, prayerful
And quiet as falling snow. Skilled
In the language of leather
And pinstripes, he translates ideals
Into movement. Executions.
A hooded monk of justice, swift
And sudden as a crash, he whispers,
Believe, with a touch of rasp,
Swiping the tag across my jaw.