The Circus's Son

The red lines waver

A white horse trots the ring

You’re stuck, star-gazed, that thing of ire.

How fond you are of heaven’s maw, that sparkling wonder.

Stare up, Circus-child, and let that beam and tassel swing

As you soar across the rope, high above that ring.

Ribbons of gold, green, black, white

Although they speak to you, “You have might”

You wish again for that studious aura

One of brown and the smell of old books

In a distant, somatic euphoria.