In the backyard, the neighbors’ crabapple trees dip over the fence,
leaving the little bullets that are used for the attacks of the children
on other children. In spring, they hit tennis balls up over the garage
with aluminum bats, doing their impressions of ballplayers they’ve
seen on television. They call out their names, mimic their stances,
make up imaginary ballgames with imaginary runners and counts,
innings of statistics that’ll never see paper, will never be recorded.
The pitcher calls time and pisses in the one corner of the backyard.
They play until the sun lowers and they can’t see the ball anymore.
They bike down to the dead end of the street where lightning bugs
are putting on a show in the field between the street and the creek.
Too many to count. Blinking, flashing over the darkness like stars.
Beyond them, an unknown universe. And something barely visible
through the trees on the other side of the creek. The next town over.