Death of an Acrobat

Stringing the flesh
there is no wire
or rigging they reel hunchback
in the wings.
Cross-haired clowns
drip smiles,
murmur and shape
the curtain red.
Pendulum
in smoke and sulphur,
cruciform, I listen
for the air to thicken,
spear
nerve-straight for the floor,
for straw and dirt where
they will collect my feathers,
where they will bury me roughly–
an explosion of birds
into the empty stalls, the balcony,
my heart in the gods.