the circle

the circle opens
sharp prongs of a ring
the animals walk in
to hear the ringmaster sing

the crack of the whip
the thwack of the chair
if a beast manages to slip
it's shoved back in its lair

the ringmaster swings
he spins and he twirls
the curve of his mustache
makes puddles out of girls

as the lights dim and dimmer
he sits in the cage alone
and the ghosts crowd around him
in the space that he calls home