and at night when we walk the tightrope
i wear my white silk dress, my hair mussed up.  
barefoot, i stand, in an indigo envelope

glowing in streetlamp light and orange fog
we are dancers of the night
purple haze from the van seeping through its metal doors
dream sparks, you call them, as the haze dispels in beams of light
I call them magic

our feet are sore, *****, and worn
they hang loose and heavy from our legs
like tired robins, our toes dangling below the tiled roof
it tickles! the blood in our veins sinking with gravity
as it passes into the tips of our feet and arms

air escapes our lungs breathlessly, dissipating into the darkness,
without effort!  
as if in that moment,
we are made of air