“A Poem About Baseballs” by Denis Johnson

for years the scenes bustled

through him as he dreamed he was

alive. then he felt real, and slammed

awake in the wet sheets screaming

too fast, everything moves

too fast, and the edges of things

are gone. four blocks away

a baseball was a dot against

the sky, and he thought, my

glove is too big, i will

drop the ball and it will be

a home run. the snow falls

too fast from the clouds,

and night is dropped and

snatched back like a huge

joke. is that the ball, or is

it just a bird, and the ball is

somewhere else, and i will

miss it? and the edges are gone, my

hands melt into the walls, my

hands do not end where the wall

begins. should i move

forward, or back, or will the ball

come right to me? i know i will

miss, because i always miss when it

takes so long. the wall has no

surface, no edge, the wall

fades into the air and the air is

my hand, and i am the wall. my

arm is the syringe and thus i

become the nurse, i am you,

nurse. if he gets

around the bases before the

ball comes down, is it a home

run, even if i catch it? if we could

slow down, and stop, we

would be one fused mass careening

at too great a speed through

the emptiness. if i catch

the ball, our side will

be up, and i will have to bat,

and i might strike out.