The Circus

He wasn’t an artist

of the trapeze

he was the catcher

hanging upside down

in the Illinois breeze

all one long summer

in the first months

of his freedom

swinging up above

the raggedy crowds

humming to himself

as the flying beautiful

knots of women

tumbled toward him

like punches in midair.

His long arms, out-

stretched, comforted

the ladies rolling

in the sky. He wore

the red and white

striped tights. He was

clean-shaven smooth

as a seal. In the caravan

of wagons he slept

in the last—next to

a book of English law,

a fiddle he was given

and never played and

the sister of the fire-

eater whose name was

something hidden and

far away. At night

rolling softly over him

she called him something

in Chinese that sounded

like what a cardinal

calls her mate falling

softly through the trees.

Aug. 1831