There exists a certain
self adhesive, in the night;
A certain match strike paper
Like a ghost, the juju dancer moves
to its percussion sound
bangled, pierced, necklaced
tattooed, misunderstood, in tune
the dancer is an omnipresence
He is he, she, and them
sordid painted faces, bulged eyes
of the horrid orchestra
cats hear, in the wind howl
The outside light comes on
A peek through the window
nothing to be seen or heard
except the moon
and the barking dogs of course
Except he, she, except them
the whole concert, of prey
and predator, in full swing
and prowl
On this canvass
episodes in story books begin to dance
and come alive while their pages
lay asleep - all fiction, but all true
- Magic - just beyond
the periphery of light
plays out, in the boundless
pregnant and eclectic night