Friday, 18 April 2014

16. Hasenheide

Before the fair, the grass hollow
is still a cupped palm,
aching to be filled with candy.

This spring, this benevolent aunt,
has sprinkled puce caravans

& gaudy day-glo waltzers
amputated from their sockets.

Without skeletons, the waltzers
are abandoned porch swings
dreaming of dust.

We are still on the inhale.

The moment before the crest
of the coaster,
our bellies suspended in sky.

Lungs primed
to helter skelter.

In one week we will be flung
confetti, gorged on neon,
exploding gunpowder buckets.

Today we wait with outstretched
palms, waiting
for the gumballs to drop.

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