A Day at the Fair


On a day when trees bend with the wind
and beckoning fingers
scratch clouds across the sky
she lays beside me,
and as my fingers touch her skin,
inside her something moves
like this same wind
tripping lights and canvas,
teasing sawdust into night-eyes,
shaking laughter loose
from summer-overflowing pockets,
and she is quiet,
like the waltzer shut down,
and she is still
as any helter-skelter
waiting in the wind
for the brush of a mat
and under my hand I feel the ground beneath
heave with the music of her,
like the wind bends a tree
to scratch at the clouds in my mind,
lighting the lights,
colouring the music
of the nights inside me wasted,
she opens her eyes
and a generator throbs the air,
she watches my smile and her eyes say,
that looks like love,
that isn't fair,
and she speaks of love that never was,
and as her voice begins the night inside me,
teases sawdust in my eye,
makes me see again the lights and movement
beneath the silence of a dark and speeding sky,
I feel the waltzer churn my heart
to the rattle of a steam calliopé song
and think to say,
oh no, my love,
for once,
I think you're wrong.