Life is a carnival..
It is better to live singing.
This grieving is unrelenting.
We cannot wipe away
what flows and flows into the red river
where the ferris wheel rests our fears
as it goes up the high heavens
blue and calm, the color
of what goes down so that in rain
as in the drenching of this recurring pain
this one in words, deep in the sense
of things, we remember for always
what goes on today when the clowns
of our people, the clowns of our writing,
they tell us what we keep for the saying
so that in Time, this lie they utter
will come on to tell us the color of lie,
one that goes on and on so we stop
once in a while, gather all that we can,
and summon the will to ride
on horses that go round and round
like this game they play in this land.
They write poems, these clowns
they write of their greatness made
of bubbles and smoke and sin,
these two lovers who die sinning.
This is the carnival here, as it were,
when writing is in the saying,
like depending on the rain for loving.