(For C. M.)
Fierce little bombs of gleam snap from his spangles,
Sleek flames glow softly on his silken tights,
The waiting- crowd blurs to crude darks and whites
Beneath the lamps that stare like savage bangles;
Safe in a smooth and sweeping arc he dangles
And sees the tanbark tower like old heights
Before careening eyes. At last he sights
The waiting hands and sinuously untangles.
Over the sheer abyss so deadly-near,
He falls, like wine to its appointed cup,
Turns like a wheel of fireworks, and is mine.
Battering hands acclaim our triumph clear.
And steadfast muscles draw my sonnet up
To the firm iron of the fourteenth line.
