The Wheel

There is a peak,
above the tip of the Big Top,
that loses its hem, to the sound
of oxidized orange slices
sanding the edges off eggshells.
This is where the big blue whale
forms candles inside its own belly.

The Hermit has hidden here,
tracking the path of digestion,
by the light of the unseen lamp.
His pencil is sharpened, rubbed
against the concrete floor,
cemented above the solar plexus.

The candle drips its spent wax
onto the floor, encasing
the pencils shavings, forming
amulets, that slip further still
through the pores, of the great beast,
becoming necklaces, worn by the worthy;
the glory behind the fallen rain.

Pouring forth; the air adorned
from the elevated other, entices
the spirits of the grains, to dance
in cheer, to the intoxication
of the resolved separation.

The troubadour distills this,
tuning his instrument to the key of romance;
caramelizing the space around the alone,
mistakenly trying to translate it into words.

How else he thinks, is he to flatter
the innermost earlobes, of the ladies
spinning the evening, into the seams,
of the circus tents?