In the middle
of the carpeted
meeting room
with his audience
watching his
every move,
the tarologist
covers one eye:

Am I here, he asks,
in the world to my right
or, covering the other eye,
Here, on the left?
I am here
he answers, on the tightrope,
balancing, both my eyes open.
I feel the tension of the rope
along my arch.
The letter B
is a stick and two balls, bat
at the balls and forget
everything you know.

Which is what
the aerialist
made me do this morning
on the train
as she broke
the spell of my commute,
grasping the hanging straps
and lifting herself,
toes pointed into the air,
hooking her foot
onto the bar
and swaying
like a bat—
the other kind
of bat.