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Wild sky

blows into the batter’s box,
chops the hardball downward

so it bounces off the plate––
slam into his cheekbone.

Whirling from the hit,
he kicks up loose dirt,

flings his helmet
hail-hard into the backstop.

The welt swells and darkens,
over-clouds

the set and certain baselines,
the pattern-mowed turf,

cares nothing
for what I think is fair or foul.

I am drenched
in all the rain’s wet questions.

© 1998 by Brian Powers

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