The Hunted and the Gathered
their faces study
the empty space
beyond the circumferences
as they move
they wear thinner
Baseball Over, Haiti Invaded
They won’t let us in, we simply
force our way in, drifting
through the empty turnstiles, facing
the empty “circle”
of the base
paths, waiting for something to happen.
They never let me on before, used
to announce over the PA anyone entering the field of play
after the conclusion of play
will be put away
only to be
let out again one day.
Guards lined up facing me, facing
the red, orange, and blue fold-down seats,
waiting for something to happen, backs
to what was
happening as the last gravitated ball arched directly
into its leather home to be cuddled and carried
off the field and thrown into the bottom
of a locker
to take my ticket, no one to say enjoy the game, to say, Bruce,
what are you doing there, son, to wipe
the seat free of rain and hold her hand out as I place
there and thank her. Instead, I’m
into another field of play, where, in Port au Prince,
lined up 20 per circular degree, they collectively ask for my ticket,
their backs to the field of action.
like my scorecard, my banner,
each of which had contained an elaborate objection,
a designed confession, now erased
like television static between innings.
Something happening back there around the pitcher’s mound?
ready to throw or to be thrown to.
In Nanjing, our guide told us
all of the bricks in the city wall
were handmade and signed
to ensure either their permanence
or the artist’s freedom.
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