August burns on and a quiet resin lifts from my skin.
The ruins of my body idling on the couch. Drunk again
or just resigned to erase another day with baseball
and sleep and paperbacks. You have left your earrings
and they weigh down the coffee table, big rings
nuzzling each other. I love being alone and watching
the rungs of a lean man edging off the bag into a lonely
spin towards second base. The days sometimes bend together
with nothing but sun stains, in through the windows
on my bare legs. Cigarettes. Missed Calls. The brain
is such a hapless animal. That praises the length
of each inning, of a ballgame. The length of the season.
The shapes the shadows make on the field. Snowy screen.
The slow trot of this sport—geometry on the TV.
