The pitcher reels and throws, and I unleash my swing,
The ball in mid-flight—curveball—hangs, suspended globe,
Tiny moon within a halo.

I swing not from the heels, but from within—with all
I am; the bat, it seems, swings me:
All is power, all exhilaration
As I feel the welding of leather, flesh, and wood.
Hands, bat, ball all cut like a twisting knife
Through the stadium, slicing the sky like lightning.
At the thundercrack I bolt toward first,
Steering all the while, the comet arching over infield—
Diving plunging headlong for the turf.

I turn and stop to look unbelieving at the diving catch,
The body in perfect parallel two feet above the ground,
Arms outstretched, the soundless thud of leather caught
In leather—the absolute electric emptiness that remains.
My body burns then shivers
At such a catch.

I am not of this world, though; the catch is matter
Of no great concern—its beauty merely astounds me.
The swing of all my swings is not another out,
But the one true cosmic catch.
As if I myself had made that catch.