Poem 64

a poem for the ‘song of myself’ assignment. but it’s more about graduation than anything. a semester and a half away.


If the circus padlocked their pachyderms in a hurry I wouldn’t come back for you.
Even if it was raining and all the flees were merrigorounding round the thought of it.
I would gypsies my way–somewhere more exciting–sending you ruby-red
kissed postcards, maybe thrice a day.


I would miss you, like I miss the front door or the stairwell. Like I miss the portals
of a life tied to a fencepost. I would miss you in my fingers, when splindling my hair. I would
collect fallen fireworks and exhausted wrapping ribbons, all the pieces of excess, brightly
worn like a crown. Hastily tied and untied.


Sounds of the evenings. Falling water, melted snow, I would listen to the chatter of changing elements
on board the incessant rocking of lions on leaches and acrobats entangled mid-flight. At night,
when all the archetypes of three rings sleeping, I would wander barefoot to the edge-side and drop
petals in the water. All for you.


When the circus leaves. As I know it must. I’ll burst through the back window, thrust my temple
to the sunlight and say to you how sorry I am to be going so soon. But the circus must go.
As promised, I’ll go with it. So, for that, little remorse will wilt from my hemlines.
–ECW

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One thought on “Poem 64

  1. If the circus padlocked their pachyderms in a hurry I wouldn't come back for you.
    Even if it was raining and all the flees were merrigorounding round the thought of it.
    I would gypsie my way–somewhere more heart throbing–sending you ruby-red
    kissed postcards, maybe thrice a day.

    I would miss you, like I miss the front door or the stairwell. Like I miss the portals
    of a life tied to a fencepost. I would miss you in my fingers, when spindling my hair. I would
    collect fallen fireworks and exhausted wrapping ribbons, all the pieces of excess, brightly
    worn like a crown. Hastily tied and untied.

    Sounds of the evenings: falling water, melted snow, I would listen to the chatter of changing elements
    on board the incessant rocking of lions on leashes and acrobats entangled mid-flight. At night;
    when all the archetypes of three rings sleeping; I would wander barefoot to the edge-side and drop
    petals toward the water. All for you.

    When the circus leaves. As I know it must. I'll burst through the back window, thrust my temple
    to the sunlight and say to you how sorry I am to be going so soon. But the circus must go.
    As promised, I'll go with it. So, for that, little remorse will wilt from my hemlines.

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