He pitched as though he were
Throwing fallen apples at a knothole.
Then again, he threw fallen apples at a knothole
As though he were
Throwing fallen apples at a knothole.
For there is no mystery in the literal, no apology.
Which is why they called him an idiot,
Which is what he was.

You could fit his desires in a pillbox —
Trinkets that shone and crude origami
Made from his paychecks.
That should make these moments
Simpler and less freighted,
With the blood wrung from his lips
And his lungs as fat as an archdiocese.

Surely his only regret is that
He can’t rise from this bed and
Drop the ball once more,
Let it roll dumbly and
Elegiacally off the mound,
Swivel his head toward the road
And hurtle through the outfield and over the fence
After the passing fire engine,
His cap fluttering behind him like a wasp,
Which is the other thing he liked to chase.

His bones shall make a fine mill whistle.