in hedges gusts rat
from lonesome scatter leaves
scurry to clump under that
just beyond the diamond
a stone bench waits for the cloud
which straggles from the splintery bleachers
trails along fences
touches bases
at the far end of the outfield swarms
the sponsors’
painted boards and tumbles over
into bushes
forgive the cold
its hold
who wouldn’t want
my hand
there’s cloud enough left in the oaks
to drop a drop on my sleeve
two, you say, for you
I appreciate this dark
on that shoulder
all the way up
link by link by link
ching ching
ching
to the backstop’s eave
the ringing I pat out
of the hand you warmed for me
in the crowded pocket
of the jacket you put on
not wanting to
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