there.
Right there, under-inside the wind,
there’s that hintlet of the very best Autumn,
the one which never happened,
the one which is every wander-hungry contentment
of both coming home
(finally!)
and at the same time, of that famous Road,
the one that beckons adventure,
and then suddenly delivers!
In a propolsive, combustive stormwhirl
of sparks,
as the great brass wheels
turn with the tug of the crank
that winds
and winds
kinetic energy into
the whole Brobdingnagian
and glorious
Circus.
This is not the Circus Maximus,
because it’s impossible to imagine that this unfurling firmament-tent,
the neverending Midway,
could ever
be any kind
of Minimus.
The tempest-beast
stopped downpouring a moment before
Dawn.
A moment before
that
all was the inexhaustible and triumphant near-hurricane,
the cloud-captured deep full Moon,
and that blast,
the lightning,
the lightning
which knew, like a heavy-dancing pugilist,
when to hold back,
and precisely when
to strike
the unspeakably tall and golden weathervane
which seized the spark,
and began to wind
the escapement
of the deceptively tiny and indomitable
bounce-engine
which powers
the brilliant Disturbance
which is the Circus,
waking,
arriving,
stretching languidly from skytip to skytop,
drinking an ocean
of coffee-laced adrenaline,
ready
to wake up
parts of yourself
that you never knew
dreamed.
