He remembers the tightrope
in ring one
A chant dulls his ears
and he falls, dreaming
A madwoman's icy fingertips
skim down the side of his head
Shrieks explode
inside his throat
Childlike, he warms himself
with brown, vibrant blankets
He can almost feel the tightrope
tugging under his feet
The memory jars him
His hand leaps endlessly
through a somersault
sky, hand to head, hand to
chest, then to thigh, while
blood spots the dirt floor

Like dying sheep, he bleats
The moans are lonely
ghastly, ricocheting off
the cold walls of his brain
remembering again the
stiff cord pressing
against his trembling frame
the taut stretch
distracting him
He stops and sees himself
carrying an aged man
to a snowy grave
He turns to watch the knife-thrower
turn the knife around
while a liquored mob shouts
Jostled, he sees memories
scatter everywhere

Withdrawing to an empty room
he craves the lack of light
the falling sensation overwhelming
the dreams collapsing around him
like an ancient ruin