Baseball- a poem
When the bat cracks on the ball-
on the inside of that sound,
if you stretched it out a thousand years,
you would hear the yearning sigh of a mountain.
My body is so rigid with desire,
with hopes, and sunshine, and wet on fresh cut grass-
The ball flies and the game runs its own pace,
and the mountain dreams and the clouds move along to the next sky.
on the inside of that sound,
if you stretched it out a thousand years,
you would hear the yearning sigh of a mountain.
My body is so rigid with desire,
with hopes, and sunshine, and wet on fresh cut grass-
The ball flies and the game runs its own pace,
and the mountain dreams and the clouds move along to the next sky.