20.

One’s speaking softly in considered tones,
a quietener to his child’s whim. The other’s
sailing the contented seas of early
love. The storms that tried to strike these brothers
down are over now, the bitter taste
has passed, and bells of laughter have replaced
the stones that once we hurled at one another.
Back in the tent, high up on the trapeze,
bracing his body for the triple twist,
the acrobat swings. The great crowd shifts and groans.
He wants their wild applause, but if he’d have it he
must seize the point where his arc has slowed and kissed
the stillness. For this is his gentle Pentecost,
the white dove motionless in zero gravity