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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