#4

"Cairn Made Out of Baseballs"

He who never sees the world
but in his faery head,
the timelessness of nothing
and the ejaculate dead
play pick-up on the iron lot
outside McSorley's.

1951: tinny bleachers hoist
the wistful living, who seldom raise
a banner; now, cairn made out of baseballs
flanks the mound where Reynolds
threw his opening day no-hitter—
           so, so long Rizzuto.

Today, on this day in unhistory,
I forge a death fugue in my head:
my father, barely drunk, not
nine outs in nor half past one,
the smouldering, pyring sun—
           less skeletal bodies then
           colliding with their dated time;
           I put them back into swing.

September 28: the Sox still trail by eight,
the raucous fans still raucous—
concessions freeze the sale of beer
(only because they've run out);
less pine tar in the living room
every time I open up your box of
           tawny baseballs, autographs;
           here's number 10 around the stitch:
           "To Edward—keep your glove down,"
           the best advice you got somehow.