The Artists
We were translations,
shattered moons shimmering
on waves of dark applause.
We were breath, syntax, pause,
lines unpegged,
the language of slow flowers
fluttering between the lion’s mouth
and the trapeze.
We were sinew
stretched and splayed
deep into endless dusk.
Lolo and May,
Yin and Yang.
We conspired with
a gray weave of canvas,
unraveled the chiaroscuro
of whisper and the aisles.
Blink and it’s gone.
Shadow-land and shutter-snap.
All that’s left is a hint of something,
like the feel of saw dust,
a flurry of rope,
stalk-thin silhouettes
of fading towns
and villages.