Press your eyes and against the fin of Asia
The game is long and the regulars are routes into both sides
--overseas, even the troupes are rallyin'
"and where have you been?" The balls,
you know, the perfect pitches
In the throes of something or other, imagining
those perfect pitchers
Yet passion, still, is foreign words
And only glass supposed upon glass
reveals his lupine herds
The sauce, he says, is not an embellishment anymore,
brings life back to arthritic fingers
Not to mask or enhance his taste,
but to bring out the true flavors,
to return the scheme to a sense of
Normal, Natural
--perfect moments are found mostly
at the bottom, or halfway down
The balls, of these people
Give them something they're under
Something to remember
Something to lose and pine for
Cover the mirrors in your blank room
--all you'll see are things you don't need
--things you don't want to look at
--all looks you don't think to need
I haven't figured anything out
and the stories still have no endings
but the beginnings seem right
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