Fifty Paces by Jesse Bradley

I could fill bouquets of bottles
with all the swagger and sentences
you’ve knocked out of me; I blush
like a duel.

I’m reinventing the baseball metaphor
for like so first base is sitting next to you,
second is holding your hand; I’m not ready
to imagine the broken glass smile
of a home run, though I want to.

If medical science would allow it,
I would let you wear my kneecaps
like pearls.