There is a ball, a sphere. There is a field,
a rectangle. At each end a space, an Aperture.
Markings on the field and men, marked and
numbered. A set of rules, a set time, a whistle,
an umpire, an audience. The phantasy of pride of
skill in tactical symmetry, the siphon of violent
energies, the bonding of comrades, place-adoration,
display-therapy: our gift, your tradition: A poet
under the grassblades, threnody in the palmtrees.
There is a ball, a sphere.

Giving back a black mesh, all the rules together, connected,
or if all the rules together, dilated, make a path out then/
Then the rules get up and shake hands. Game, set. No

I mean yes. Turn. Tangled up in its geometry the tree sprouts TREE (in English, but not in Italy). Chak. (Again is the sequent magic). If, stepping inside around and then outside and then again inside the circle of the rules of the game is the game, what then? Got that? Chak. But that's a new game. Turn, dance. Busy, busy, busy