Over Sheffield Avenue
I’m playing baseball in the Garden of Eden.
Scratch that. I’m writing baseball
in the Garden of Eden—where old cars
ride street corner curves in our square
city, while vendors hawk peanuts.
I’m writing baseball out of the Garden of Eden.
Clouds sail the blue-gold lake, a tincture
Titian never mastered. Players skim
the surface grass in pinstriped cottons:
blue hats, blue socks, blue numbers.
I’m writing baseball out of the Garden.
I touch the field to liquefy it—
a prism painted deftly on my eye.
I’m writing baseball as it never was,
from a Sunday on which we won it all.
“All that I can tell from here”
From here the rocks
cause bruise blue
skin; mosquitoes prick
me as I swim in.
A map notes you and I
span 3,000 miles,
pin to pin; farther
we have never been.
A valley unclasps
beyond my hands.
I anchor my skin
above the rocks and slide
in the cooled blue,
an ache away from you.