i throw the ball high in the air

somewhat mightily

and up and up it flies and keeps flying

blasting through a history of birds

towards a lighter and thinning future

until it runs out of the desire

to be away from me

and stops and hovers for a moment

and looks back in hunger

and starts falling (answer: here) down

and keeps falling, slicing through

the birds of history

towards a dark and thickening future

and those on the other side drift about

to catch it, their judgment of its arc

getting better with each reading

of its possible trajectories

meanwhile the ball split at the moment

between the rise stopping and the fall beginning

and there emerges something, a sincere shape

that returns to the source of absence

so that at the end of the game

the thrower, more or less of me

and the catchers, more or less of us

both have their hands less empty

than they had it before it began.

~ ajay

16/7/2022