From a shaky scaffold rising out of the poison oak,
a pair of men are tearing off
the back of our redwood baseball stands.
Who would have guessed it?
Between the boards, row on row of honeycombs,
packed in like a visiting team in brown and saffron uniforms.
All these years a sweetness
building at our backs, a hidden infield
of play, the score kept in numberless columns
by so many runs home. Here was a game
never called on account of darkness,
only halted by too much light.