The world is independent of my will. – Wittgenstein

I hit the ball. It didn’t move.
I swung again, a harder swing.
The handle cracked, the impact’s sting
radiated down my arm.

Suspended in the muggy air,
not spinning, every thread in place
and bright as blood, the shining white
planet stared me in the face.

Refusing to be orbital
or give in to the natural law
of gravity, it held in awe
players, coaches, parents. Still

the scoreboard shows the score is tied.
No cars have left the parking lot.
The outfield grass has never grown
since I have let the handle drop.

Original appearance in Yale Review

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