Maggie Butt


The weeks are tumbling over one another
over and over like Chinese acrobats:
impossible handsprings, effortless,
tinsel dressed, bright with sequins
spangles and greasepaint and sweat
somersaulting so fast they are blurred
until you can’t see where one starts and
another finishes, tumbling out of the circus tent
on and on, up the dusty hillside road
off to the horizon.