Having finally dined with the aerialist,
I found him just a college gymnast,
fresh pressed East Coast boy dismissed
from frosty Dartmouth February last,
distinguished just by his wish to kiss
the topmost stripe of the circus tent, sniff
sugar mixed with sawdust, trodden glass, and seek
the chalky hand of the Only Candelabra Girl.
Let me lift my glass and drink to the quirk
that lets him fly, slick in tights and lycra,
nightly through the Gods. I shall crick my neck
to see him spin his new wife high above me,
her roped mouth, her spotlit nose, and
candles in her fingers, candles in her toes.