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the archives reported

note-worthy historical events:

the great fires igniting from the rotting oil-

soaked floors of the monumental

granite structures of the textile mills;—

the fires of the hill-topping steepled churches;

the priest’s proclamations and the testament's

prophesy of ashes to dust;—

the overpowering strength in construction

of the through-truss bridge

spanning the heavy water of the river;—

the laying of foundations for the brick

and mortar housing project where the dark-
haired island beauties would find
themselves behind its narrow windows;—
the steam-shoveled soil and stone

filling-in the pit of the slicing granite
ledge whose deep still-water sucked

the life out of some of us;— the hurricane winds

and rising waters

and the Narrows fresh-water ponds receding

to their bed-rocks at the face of the struggling

pumping station.

but no record of the bikes peddling

fast across its locked
iron doors toward the dense and beautiful
Reservation;

no listing of the fierce

spiked line-ups assembled against us;

not one pitch to be found recorded;

nothing of the base hit dribbled

between second and first advancing the base-
runner to third;

the stance on the bag as if routine

and nothing of the mouth of the girl

at the trunk of the tree

at the close of the ninth.