Mr. Allen — George Abbe’s “The Passer”

Dropping back with the ball ripe in my palm, Grained and firm as the flesh of a living char, I taper and coil myself down, raise arm to fake, Running a little, seeing my targets emerge Like quail above a wheat field’s golden lake. In boyhood I saw my mother knit my warmth With needles that were straight. I learned to feel The passage of the bullet through the bore, Its vein of flight between my heart and deer Whose terror took the pulse of my hot will. I learned how wild geese slice arcs from hanging pear Of autumn noon; how the thought of love cleaves home, And fists, with fury’s ray, can lay a weakness bare, And instinct’s eye can mine fish under foam. So as I run and weigh, measure and test, The light kindles on helmets, the angry leap; But secretly, coolly, as though stretching a hand to his chest, I lay the ball in the arms of my planning end, As true as metal, as deftly as surgeon’s wrist.