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From: "L.O.V.E. Love"
Circus
This sparkling crowd should warm her
like the breath of the fire-eater.
And though balloons flutter in the heights
of the awning, its the circle
of the tent that makes her face herself.
This
is Christmas she can no longer stand,
sat in a shower of children resplendent
in their chequered Sunday clothes, like the clowns
they bellow at down their candy-floss.
Who haul, from a box stage centre,
stars that shiver in the artificial light.
The
funny man falls
from the milk churn, exactly as planned,
his loose tooth swings like a flap-door
to let her out to a brittle night
where the stars pull in their five points and
the ponies are crushed against the bars
of their cages.
What
do they know, she thinks,
of looking good, of entertaining
except food and a place to sleep? Maybe
the winter coat she never got, a hand
wiping smooth the dampness of their flanks,
a coarse whisper of goodnight.
Bending
to pick
at the sparse grass, the snowy earth beneath
the sawdust is toughening -
tomorrow shell chip away at the mirror-like splinters
to tell her what she fears she already knows.
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