Often I'm amazed. The light, year after year. The back sun room where children played, where the old world continued somehow. I only need to open my hand and the world I don't know disappears. The cold sunshine, the equality of conditions, a formal sense that out there, beyond, you would always be there.

In the year of nineteen seventy-six the excessive light meant the stout working women with flabby arms brought out their Spanish fans or just breathed deeply under the striped shades. You'd live your whole life out there and never see anything like it again. The old men, reddened faces, their sleeves rolled up even higher revealing burned forearms, pretended as if it was all par for the course-and it was, it all was, since nothing unexpected was ever allowed to happen.  

We flipped beer mats next to the school wall or played marbles in the long hours, rolling them to safety, making equivalences: a "bloodshot" for two "minstrels". The one-off moment of the pitch. And it reverberates down to us even now, and always will, down down, traveling eighty years 
Outward from there, to be the same ripple
Inside him at its last circumference.