Around the Same Old Netball Court

The sounds of those nights
of young life, not yet wearing the spring
shadowing my window,
as they do my mind now.

Not yet eliot's encompassing,
compass scrawl.
But many circles, none the less.

there where the world was silver
'cept for my growing temples.

The sounds accompany an ill founded 
 search for Shape.
The round ball
plied by sounds
and carried by numerable seconds
(past the solipsistic, slippery contortions.
 grasping, falling forward.)

flighted from one evening
to another

Reaches:
 my plain fingers.
Reaches.