Sitting
on the fence
between
the street
and the circus,
I watched the sun
going down
between the tent
and the row of caravans and cages;
watched the last of
daylight
die
far off
across the field
across the city
behind
St. Peter’s
dome.
Here was the darkness,
the slightly
reddened
twilight,
the food wagon,
sleeping wagons
(dark and low)
the eating tent,
and then the new
(and their reflections
walking in it
toward the tent
of tables)
and the pump
(and their figures
bending to it humbly).
Some sat near it
and eating,
spoonless,
from tin plates,
scooping up beans,
drinking wine
from deep
long-handled
canisters;
and beyond the lake
and the water hose,
the avenue of lions
(dark cage-wagons
whence rose
a plaintive
roar).
In lines
as weary,
graceful
as the sky,
as much at home
as mountains,
rose the tent.
Above it were two lights
before.
Below it
were the midway lights;
long pointed stars
and gently
looping
vines of light,
cascading
as an arch
above the
midway.
But in this lake
this pond
this pregnant sea,
all is reflected here,
all shadows pass
as circus
from the field;
and light
gently
as a star.