Elysian Fields Quarterly - The Baseball Review

Agony of Aristotle and blue book,
other-worldly cant of Kant
and categorical whatever
and Sartreís loneliness
lay siege to this boy
who would otherwise be
on Godís green grass
if not for this test, these texts
that count so little
next to the certainty of
straight white lines,
dust raked rich and red
under cleated feet,
the sound of the spheres
when bat hits ball
like subject kisses verb,
when horsehide makes love to leather,
comes loudly, snugly consorts and stays,
the verity of curveball that does not hang,
the hope that one does when he bats,
the hope that it rockets the unabstract
distance to dead center,
the knowing that sometimes he can
hit one out, round the bases
and be part of a wholeness
that would make even Aristotle
leap up to cheer
and not care a damn
if he spilled a full beer.

—EFQ