In the quarkiest parts of my body
baseball is played / never played.
I itch all summer to place /

never place a hot dog
against my tongue, for fireworks
to vibrate and explode / never

explode and kill / feed the silence
of the infinite space
above home plate.

I smell like stadiums closing.
In all my locker rooms, bacteria
make sweet, sweet fission.

It’s lovely,
the bravado of loss
in my cells’ decay. I should

give in to curiosity, look
and collapse everything
I ever was / ever will be.

In my smallest particles
lives a cat,
and in her smallest particles

lives a mouse.
As long as I never look,
she might hold her body

perfectly still,
moving slowly and forever
toward / away from teeth.