Day 78

the night the Gore and Spectacle stopped
we were suspended on puppet strings,--
minds aloft,
we were transfixed in taxonomy-- the carousel
turned, chasing lights of spinning mirrors
accordions breathing in the yellow-gold gauzy light and
gilt horses leaping mechanical magic
tracing out centuries of
souls leaving bodies
except, they don't quite anymore, just pull at the edges
until we shake them back into our shapes.
beside me you sang low notes from the back of your throat.
we leaned on the banister and watched.
tears in my eyes, i hoped it would collapse--
all our strings could strangle us and still we'd move like marionettes
for as long as the music played.