So once,
now served
from a distant memory,
I saw
an irresistibly unavoidable clown
pulling a seemingly endless string
of brightly colored scarves
out from his chest.
I couldn’t look away.
At first, I thought
his clothes were magical,
pull by pull,
it seemed to me
a prism stream
of colored prayer flags
poured out of him.
His flowing gestures
were like swim strokes
in reverse
up this thin colorful stream
coming out of his soul.
But he mimicked laughter
all of this time
that he was swimming.
I wanted to give him
mouth-to-mouth resuscitation,
to CPR him
full of my sounds,
to set us both free.
He . . .
a mute prisoner
of his intoxicating,
what seemed,
crazy wisdom actions,
I could not save
but loved through me.
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