Outside the circus tent,
the air smells of the ocean.
Moments before, we held our breath
as the trapeze artist
flipped.
Let go and hung
suspended
in the air for a heartbeat.
If you’re close enough,
you can hear her inhale and exhale,
the gasp of relief.
From a distance,
everything looks effortless.

In a field by another shore
where the same ocean crashed
against the land
it has always tried to drown,
we measured the horizon by the ruins.
Mapped distance
by the weight
of the weather-beaten stones
in the crumbling tower
that was once a monument
to someone long since
forgotten.

The ribs could be seen through the contortionist’s pale skin.

When the circus tent
is pulled down,
the harbor will be visible
again.
Power boats leave white memory marks
in their wake
and sailboats filled with wind
grow out of the sea like shark fins.
The water is never still
and we’ve built land out of its depth
to engineer our own miracles.
Point east to the horizon line,
to the land where the deterioration of time
is made physical.
There are some places you cannot walk.

There are different ways to reach
for permanence,
but in the end your fingers
close
too quickly.
Outside the circus tent,
the air smells of the ocean
and your laugh fills the night sky,
curls around the street lights.
There are moments that will not last,
but hold them anyway.
They can fill your palm like coins
and when you feel their
weight,
know that life is made of
this.