curiosity got your tongue?

And also, there's the last rehearsal for the circus--
by which i came between the library and here.
inside were the hundred cast directed between
Jill's fingers, the actors dressing and undressing,
the dancers stretching as they whispered
(and i understand the drive found by
lautrec or degas to capture the nervous,
the beauty of dancers before they feel watched
of singers while they are listening to the croud
before a show, of painters hanging their art
before they are obliged to smile toward it, nervouse
to see if there will be a croud to like ordissaprove
of it. of acrobats in their comfortable clothes
and of writers drinking, nervous to sell themselves
sad they will have to, hopeful, and sometimes deafeated
but not yet hiding themselves.)

and in the dark rehearsal space the unicycles
fell and no one laughed when rollerblading dragons
were upstaged by a falling folding chair
and people whispered embraced hellos in dark,
hiding beside others as zebras lept
and the excitement of the unknown
like small orgasmic silences, would be betrayed
by the mention of it, and through the old-friend
thought that (would) i would be a dancer in an other
life- a dream like others, but a road not taken
-through this and through the beauty of dance-
an art that, above the others kills the artist.
one starts young and most are forced by joints
to free their bodies from their loves
(a disguised blessing to die while one still
wants to be alive) and only in the (does one ever
truly know themselves) prime of the opening
and closing emotions of youth so that
one learns what is important only as it leaves--
through that stood proud the slanting
pinball cityscape that dominates my evening 
thoughts-- the game, as with many, that is
only won by the prolonging of the loss.

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