david m. harris

Right Fielder

Neat’s-foot oil and leather
pounding ball into glove
enfolding oiled glove around ball
marrying with a book strap
teaching ball and glove to belong together
binding the tools of summer
to their tasks
possibilities and prospects.
Binding myself to baseball.
In March, we are all dreamers.

(originally published in Slow Trains)

Nightfall

In the grass, crickets sing the heat.
Behind me, dogs crunch kibble.
Above, silent bats prowl,
dark ghosts fluttering and swooping
over roof and yard,
careening through the trees and feasting,
blue-collar fliers, sweeping the air.
They draw me up,
to the Great Dog, to the Hunter,
out of the blood
that draws the mosquitoes.

(originally published in Pirene’s Fountain)

Until 2003, David M. Harris had never lived more than fifty miles from New York City. Since then he has married, acquired a daughter and a classic MG, and gotten serious about poetry. All these projects seem to be working out pretty well.

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