It's not solely the dance
of the juggler but his spirit:
with its turkey wings, perfect thighs,
sensuous hips, large round flat eye.
This eye smiles like lips.
Watch this eye—
it's not a donkey eye.

It's not solely the dancer
who moves like a circus animal
as though to children's music—no,
it's the girl in the swing's rhythm,
the ticking of the clock at night,
the strut of the cock, the flight
of the holy family to the remains.
The nipple that feeds
the infant is an eye looking
into his future.

It's not even the village square
with its musicians and happy faces
that makes the difference—no,
because if it were, weddings
with violins, harps, flutes
would have settled the question:
no, it is the rising and lifting,
the failing and catching of
that unknown sense of self
before it crashes, that matters.