At the Circus

At the center of the lit circle, rising

from cotton-candy calf muscles,

the White Clown ushers his

eyebrows skyward. He grates his ukulele,

opens a heart-shaped mouth, inhales—

his serenade begins.

Now's the time. From the shadows,

a blast like a trumpeting elephant:

obscene, ragged. The Auguste capers like a fawn,

darts away, pads around

with his trombone. The gold of the slide

slips into and out of the infinite.

Everything smells of panther

and piss and mint. His gaze fixed

on the clash between the welled tears

and the awful laughing shoes,

the little boy grows

ever more grave, ever more severe.