Poem 121

Literary Merit
They balled me up and crammed me in the cannon
Lit the fuse and I shot out in a tantrum—legs everywhere
Arm in gasps of air. Body square taking on flight like a skipping stone,
All alone in the atmosphere doing cartwheels on cloud heels and waiting
For them to cancel the act.
The cirque de cannon. Darting shadows around a covet-cliché,
We are air-borne of nimbus dream-madness until we crash.
And we will crash,
Because landing would mean we all deserve to survive.
But there would be so many worthy sky-dancers.
And the fellows below would rather wrap the safety net
Into a sack and cast us to the sea…
…quickly, hide in the cannon.

—ECW

(in case you thought this poem was about real cannons, read on)

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