just shooting around

love and space
clandestinely arranged
in my palm.

feeling the weight
of oceans
unfolding

holding
a ball,
sluiced,

by thin black channels

breathing,
from the shoulders out

moving

in signature time
to the dribbling
of felt tip fingers

staining,
the air,
with stanzas.

stopping.
shoulder-width
and stationed still

quarter note gets the beat

leaving
the mundane business
of earth

for heights untethered

while hoping
--just once--
for cursive elegance

back-spun and end-to-end visiting
treasure trove in diameter
the ball
Now
out of my hands...

nylon cross-hatch
hung and hanging
from a thin metal lip

chiaroscuro circumscription
of space
all caroming down.