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
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.