Ring

    Brittle silence wraps me inside it, 
    a new poem again for some tea. 
    Sleep toured the open sea the sea at seven. 
    Around me, I drew a circle in the words of its interior. 

   Brittle silence, looking 
   beautiful voice, the player's rattle 
   gentle breeze, the warm summer night skies. 

   Weary in the ring, not a way out. 
   What we are, we are the lonely life 
   to beat each boxing ring Racks. 
   Some are great maestros, some 
   miserable street musicians. 
   Some of the world monitors 
   free itinerant organ grinder. 

   I am a grown inside me 
   your circus clown of myself 
   I do often. Sad or joyful, 
   thin or a hundred pound. 

   Even a Clown can dance a tarantula, 
   when the love of life in the ring closes, 
   the clown cries, laughs, and the same 
   the periphery of the stage of life passes.