she’s a trapeze artist
came to my tent
last night smelled of
cigarettes and tasted
like cold-cream
I can barely walk
since the illness
the stabbing pain
just below my heart
continues she tells
me the fortune teller
foresees a gloriously
bright future as soon
as the longest night
ends which is impossible
to predict then she says
I will heal return
as the human
cannon ball set a
new standard in
arial maneuvers
but she’s biased
at home in the air
flying whirling
trapeze artist living
without the need
of an itinerant
circus safety net