New Poem, Born of P&W’s Weekly Prompt

Very rough right now, subject to work and criticism. I don’t even know if I want to keep this title.

Big Top

The trapeze artist on losing his stance,
walks the black plank out
of orbit swooped
into a nest, the kind

you may associate with wicker,
or felt, or ash
stretching the pleats and bones
of the body, rife

with punishment, sometimes pores
grown as blue as figs
after a century,
or merely years of static.

Youth ticking in its speakers.
The siren that never went off,
there is no one to blame
but the birds they call

the towers they call lungs.
What is
an exhortation?

A letter, a hymn
to a body left
to its own shadows
blackbirds that knock at the fringe

You fall with so much silence
You never trusted any god
your hands drew circles
that shined red in a wood

which was once a womb
which was once a tree
without synonym.

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