Every day I peruse the box scores for hours
Sometimes I wonder why I do it
Since I am not going to take a test on it
And no one is going to give me money

The pleasure’ s something like that of codes
Of deciphering an ancient alphabet say
So as brightly to picturize Eurydice
In the Elysian Fields on her perfect day

The day she went 5 for 5 against Vic Raschi

The cave looked much like any other
from a little distance but
as we approached, came almost
to its mouth, we saw its walls within
that slanted up into a dome
were beating like a wild black lung —
it was plastered and hung with
the pulsing bodies of bats, the organ
music of the body’ s deep
interior, alive, the sacred cave
with its ten thousand gleaming eyes

Not a sign of life we rouse
In any square close-shuttered house
That flanks the road we amble down
Toward far trenches through the town.

The dark, snow-slushy, empty street...
Tingle of frost in brow and feet...
Horse-breath goes dimly up like smoke.
No sound but the smacking stroke

Of a sergeant flings each arm
Out and across to keep him warm,
And the sudden splashing crack
Of ice-pools broken by our track.

The sill plays a cruel joke — thrones me. Frames me
lording over lawn mower stripes — myself

in a shallow trench. In grass blades. Myself
persisting, despite a dickhead sun — me

in chlorophyll. Early, I find myself
swaying — me! in the black chokeberry, me!

in the rabbit’ s throat. Me, the rabbit. Me
dancing out pellets. Out-dancing myself —

my father’ s pellet gun, the hawk. The joke
is a bright belly full of dark hopping

along my father’ s garden & the joke
small, between wrapped talons, is the hawking