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Would they notice if
we kissed, here
on the middle
infield?
Would the umpire stop
play and call dead
ball?
Here in the rain-loosened
clay, here by the second
bag, here on my brotherly
lips.
Would they notice if I slept
with my head on your
shoulder on the flight to
New York.
I've heard a weary Persian
tradesman kissed a stranger
for want of the sight of another.
Think me the tradesman,
too many lonely miles
scarred across my feet.