Are still waiting, the infielders shifted
Boudreau forever cogitating
The fans, fated to watch, impotent
and rapidly shuttling
Between love and hatred
Not for artists the vainglory of flags
Your vision is keener, fixed on the
rotation of a sphere spinning
in space and time
Too brief or grand for measure
Let others call them what they see,
ball four or strike three
It does not make them so
And none of them understands why
Sometimes one must spit at expectations
So that it may remain as free, enchained though it be by its own quest
Which demands of it greater stillness
The freed mind cannot
But restlessly wander from such quotidian tasks
As the pursuit of fly balls
The spurious necessity of which is proclaimed most loudly
By those whose inability to do as you
Creates a need therefore seldom worth the required attention
Diligence has its place and no doubt substantial rewards therein
History can be redeemed only in a present that is weightless, an eternal instant
Shattered to perfection with one act, that swing
Of perception, and only then
And then is gone again to begin again all over
Tomorrow there will be another game, and tomorrow
The runners you left on base are stll waiting
Resentful of their need and your pride, understanding neither
While you seek to make yourself free of them
In selfish performance, providing what they most want
Chasing them around again home, that best-wanted and least-known place
You wish to outdo nature, others only to serve it
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