I was at a poetry panel at Boskone, and the seed of this came to me. I don’t think it is quite what I had in my head, but that’s part of the problem which comes of seeing a poem entire, as a sense of emotion, and then working to put it to paper.
So I won’t say this is done, but it’s past the first draft stage of things; though it does still need a title (116 Seconds seems a bit like over egging the pudding).
It happened when I was young,
A hanging curve and the sense of slowing time
Then the bat slicing round to meet the ball: a deep, flat, resonant, THWACK!
The ball leapt away, a sliver of white, all eyes following it to that moment of breathless equipoise
where it hung, for that long and pregnant second, before the arc of rise stopped
before it slid to earth; falling beyond the stadium wall, out of sight
while the circuit of the bases was closed
In the compass of those curves was Summer distilled.