1. apoetreflects:

At the Circus 
At the centre of the lit circle, rising from cotton-candy calf muscles, the White Clown ushers his eyebrows skyward. He grates his ukulele, opens a heart-shaped mouth, inhales— his serenade begins.
Now’s the time. From the shadows, a blast like a trumpeting elephant: obscene, ragged. The Auguste capers like a fawn, darts away, pads around with his trombone. The gold of the slide slips into and out of the infinite.
Everything smells of panther and piss and mint. His gaze fixed on the clash between the welled tears and the awful laughing shoes, the little boy growsever more grave, ever more severe.
—Umberto Fiori, translated by Geoffrey Brock in Poetry (December 2007)

    apoetreflects:

    At the Circus 

    At the centre of the lit circle, rising
    from cotton-candy calf muscles,
    the White Clown ushers his
    eyebrows skyward. He grates his ukulele,
    opens a heart-shaped mouth, inhales—
    his serenade begins.

    Now’s the time. From the shadows,
    a blast like a trumpeting elephant:
    obscene, ragged. The Auguste capers like a fawn,
    darts away, pads around
    with his trombone. The gold of the slide
    slips into and out of the infinite.

    Everything smells of panther
    and piss and mint. His gaze fixed
    on the clash between the welled tears
    and the awful laughing shoes,
    the little boy grows
    ever more grave, ever more severe.

    —Umberto Fiori, translated by Geoffrey Brock in Poetry (December 2007)

Notes

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