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Throwing baseball in the street with Aldo, who lives
next door, I shattered the glass storm window the city
made the landlord install—he and his handyman
had mounted it two weeks before. Brin left this note
on the fridge that night. (We don’t have a side yard
or enough room in the back to play baseball.) Written
in pencil on the back of a take-out menu
from The Golden Forest:
There are four angels standing at the four
corners of our side yard where we play baseball.
Two of the bases are patches of dirt
from us standing on base and killing the grass—
the other two are a rock and the drainage pipe.
They’re surrounded by patches of dirt.
There’s a small tree growing out of the pipe.
I hack it down every summer—it’s tough
and rubbery—I use the hatchet my Uncle
Jack gave me. Hitting the ball over the road
in the air is a home run. The angels
aren’t at the bases because the bases
make a diamond. The corners are out
of the baseline. The angels have brass horns.
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