Ping Pong, Peter Doig

It disappears into the woods,
opponents dash, retrieved, withstood,
enigmatic plushing paddlers,
transverse pyrodactic saddlers,
environments are mitigated,
49 black-blue-grey plated
bricks through which a point of view
kaleidoscopically renews
the jungle's prescient perspiration,
instinct throttled, merged migrations,
t(r)o/pics flush with fragrant sound
as the ball slowly rebounds,
attentive, then, for its return,
revolving shades, to play, to yearn,
apply far-sighted syntheses
and integrate the timeless breeze.