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.