We’re standing on the mound of a baseball field. Our lips

are curled like hand-cups ready for the catch,

the exclamation of raindrops suddenly falling

from the sky. What we want are the tongues of question marks

unfurling from the mud. You’re looking at me

looking up trying not to think

of you. Is baseball as romantic as Basho

counting his dew drops? Does wonder look

like the U.S. without its full-stops? Are we

closer together than we are farther apart?

The answer is our shoes are elsewhere

lacing each other through loops

in the rain because

where we go is with our hands.