A Tennis Exchange

In about the space of a tennis exchange,
I grow to see the fall face of the clown. 
We precipitate out of peals of thespian laughter. 
We are veteran actors in fields of plenty. 
My awareness engages the incipient world thorn. 
Its blossom is masked with a grin. 
An ember, indicative of softly spoken indifference,
dies on the forest floor.  A piece of fallen fruit flickers in the night. 
A moonbeam chases my speech.  I wave the inner child
through the alchemy of the hide.

I ride in a carriage canopied by coarse starlight. 
It is drawn by sorrel horses who speak like the surf. 
My island belongs to a tree named White. 
Like Leo, he anoints his first subject with his tongue. 
     I holler out of the screen of constellations,
crying as a completely different animal. 
My shout fulfills the law of man tasting his humanness.   

Approximations, disclosed only to us,
     draw us closer together
     on a crutch that belongs nowhere, decodes nothing. 
My youthfulness plays with the danger of living in the sky. 
I need a big, fat rat of a complimentary philosophy. 
We fly into the radio of the world's stage. 
The announcer gets in my brain,
pierced by the arrow of consciousness.

His authority frequents my playful mind.
The disparity of a name and its owner is your first abstraction.
I share this with you on the certainty
that you have not heard what I just said.
If you are friends with the announcer,
then you will tell him or her that I said hello.