kinda rhymes with "tiger poem." Which is just one of the many thousands of reasons that I love her. Welcome to Operation: Tiger number, um, 14?
The Circus Folk Find Fault in Their Own Humanness
The circus of us
is constantly leaving,
the elephants down the midway,
my little bone baby, my tented
world of un-machines.
Yes, we’ve killed most everything:
the caspian tiger,
the javan
and, it’s true,
the bali are all gone.
Still, our finest failure,
our human parts uncovered and
raw like a tiger wound
we cannot find a reason to touch one another
without a gasping audience in the room.
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4 comments:
I think its 13 but I mighta missed one
You're absolutely correct, Scott. I was sort of kidding around by counting the Hall/Behrle underwear exchange as a tiger poem. I'll straighten up! I promise!
ohh... now that's a visual poem
I'm all synced up now.
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