Awake

When the pinch runner scores, the room can sleep.
Twelfth inning, upstairs, the radio purrs low.
A single clean crack will set the night at peace.
 
This is the sanctuary now—two damp sheets
and a mattress, full moon, water glass overflowed.
When the pinch runner scores, the room can sleep.
 
Spectral, through dark, the batter pounds his cleats.
Invincible? He must be. The runner inches home.
A single clean crack will set the night at peace
 
and release the hours before. So many things neared
resolution this week: The fingers almost coaxed
Chopin from the keyboard; the eyes fought off sleep
 
to see the model ship half-built. At moments like these
the world seems set to blossom, a stretch on tip toes
enough to fix the body three inches taller, true peace
 
a wavering grasp away. Here upstairs, with the stream
of white through drapes, the pennants hang in a row.
When the home team wins, the other fears can sleep.
 
The pitcher sets now. As the runner takes his lead,
the hands grip a phantom bat, swing, urge the ghost
of the ball into blackness. Just this, and then peace.
 
When the dreams flow in, there will be no mirrors,
no proof of the callow face, the arms thin as bone.
On that side is perfection. The room must sleep.
If the diamond rests, the diamond rests in peace.


    Published in The First Thing Mastered (Tebot Bach, 2013)