Better than salt money

Work like you were living in the early days of a better nation


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A work in progress

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.

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