— after Mark Strand
Age ten was a carnival tent but mobile,
scouring the town’s hem for hubcap, trophy. Servile
and driven by the nip and bay of our dogs, we
dance-stepped the field’s hailstone memory.
Calibans with a bird in each shoe. Though
the heart tingled at the sight of blood,
for a short time the seasons spun on an axle
of games and rode joy to an unleashed
plunge — everything given at birth, proffered
to new hands like a talent for landscapes,
a headful of steam, then locked away
as we grew to know solitude. Alone
with the roulette rattle echo, we scour
each city’s papers for news of our
own passing. The photo, the August night
we’ll recognize as counterpoint
to the perfumed dirge we’ve become —
that kiosk counter at chest level and
the softball’s taunting, sponged heft,
the funk of moneyed adults
in sneakers and thongs, their candied
breath a dank mould on your nape.
Peering into the shadow and pall
of a games tent where rigor mortis pandas
noosed on fishing line, levitate over
the coin box — fat, seamless — their eyes
like larvae under glass, and you’ve
targeted the gap in the grin of one clown
where he shows plywood and pressboard
under greasepaint. Your knees, coltish,
clang an arthritic ache, erode onto
tarmac, and shake. Pinch
back a burr of sobs in the throat
and just throw
into risk —
A man grunts. Shuffles off.
Night pulls pegs from the heart’s clay, feeds
slack to tie-lines, billows, and puckers
in the dust. With a bankroll of gold opiates,
morning outbids all coiners.