He raises his hat and out fly
all the colours of all the tents he’s ever played in.
He raised his hat to you in the interval
and out flew a duck, whom he’d raised,
sharing the green parts of every meal with.
He’ll pull a silk from his pocket that will not end.
He’ll start to shake you by the hand and there’ll be no end there’ll be no end
to it. He roses his hat and every hair on you rises
to run away to to run away from the circus.
(Behind you, a donkey regarding a gate.
Behind him, caravans, smoke pluming the air.)
No hat – you look back, into a gap;
he knows what he knows, and you don’t.
All through the glory of the second half,
yearning mooncalved in you.
Outside, only the donkey watches us home
in the rising rain; in every in no way changed.