The Circus

The crack of a whip

on the back of an animal,

the clenched teeth and

nochalent cruelty,

the metalic smell of blood

and crazed eyes seem

to resonate with me.

I smell saw dust and watch

the high flying trapeze

artists flip and fly above me.

The circus reminds me

of something, the sweat and

the heat and mutterings of

a peanut crunching crowd

seem to draw me back into

an illuminated hell,

neon lights flickering as

flies smack into death

again and again and again.

The noise gets louder as

I return to you in my head,

small black God,

dense and solid and dull

but so whole, so completely

whole.

The weight of yoour memory

takes over my chest, again,

and I gasp as one of the flying

trapeze artists falls and

is lucky enough to be

caught in a net.