Ichiro’s Swing

The front leg bends back like a bough
Before it snaps in a boy’s hands.
The cleats stomp shallow hollows into the clay
As the belt buckle rolls toward sundown.
The elbow strokes the ribs,
The bottom arm locks tetanus tight.
The bat digs for the roots, scatters spadefuls
As though to bury, under
Leans and levers and skylarking,

The rudiments that came before him.
Divorced uncles who brush their teeth in kitchens
Will declare it unfit for emulation —
This three-part harmony of scimitars.
Moments before the conspirator whispered,
Make it look like an accident.

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