the counter-tenor's plaint

rises

like a skeletal finger

silver clad, sure and true,

from the dark bed

of massed, muttering sleepers,

touching, reaching further,

touching the averted face

of one who looks not,

hears naught.

-  -  -

the circus giant

put down his weight,

whistled a tune

till the sea rose to his eyes,

till the sea rose to his eyes.

1/14/2021