-miracle on the Fenway-

the new poem came to me

late last night through an explosive light.

it was startling, but

I returned to sleep without difficulty, and because

I'm not required to do much of anything,

I concentrated on the poem within the dream and

wrote-down as many names as I could recall.

my early neighborhood friends were well represented,

some of whom are still among living, as well as many

of my childhood sweethearts,–– alas,

also a few of the dead ones,–– all of whom were gathered

in the left field stands of an American League ballpark, while

the game is being played without a designated hitter.

sounds of exhilaration drive outward from the stands

toward the diamond running counterclockwise.

(Williams plays the carom off the wall to perfection,

although there is no account of this phenomenon in the dream)

it's the early evening side of a twi-night.
the lights are slowly inhaling, bluing the Fenway,

and Teddy Ballgame, on deck with his obsession,
calculating the ball's flight to the plate and how it displays its stuff
with each changing count, is the sole custodian of his head.

and then, sunrise