can take anything into your vision time

  to kneel but who are you an editor

  is opposite with books & ok ideas you

   are only responsible for the images though

   what if you stood there something being

   thrown at you look arund & run

     are you thinking of what you are at this point are

     you letting things slide into your mind to rub or analyse

     later luckily theres no talking involved the pitch remains fast hard

    the games there on the other side of

    the screen make a sign so someone will

    know hit flat it works every time supposing

      you want that & dont want to mooch

      get out sustains a leg injury for reasons

      obscure there are numbers out there they

     want to be in here with the memories

     & anxieties mutated from your first play ever

     was that the word catch or is it

  raining with so much green around maybe

youre in the sea a dog runs to you

 warning you of the body in the clubhouse

you are dreaming yourself & your dad his shirt

 marked with red hes

  exposed his heart or is wounded a tennis

ball lies between the dogs paws

                                  rescued from some lonely lawn just

     grip it in your hands sometimes youve

     got to hurt to heal a lot

     can be said & written down when

    a little stretchings employed or an analogys

brought in at god knows what cost
                 you find yourself immersed in the classics only

to be told not to repeat history not

    even your own any subjects only seemingly

clean & kills like a temple knock or

   interrupted leads to a series of breakings off

because the body or the thought

   is uncommitted or taught to believing in

the fallback position perhaps knowing

 							               its existence is enough to hold us whether

we won the match or not wiping sweat

      off to come is to be single to be

      part of the test the span the spinoff &

      you walk back to the pavilion in a state